TERRA
by SyllableFromSound
Summary: "Let's imagine that there really were no countries. The Earth had been united under one rule, one body—we'll call that single governing body TERRA." What happens when nations are no longer needed? AU. Partially inspired by John Lennon's "Imagine".
1. Prologue

**Yes...I have a billion other things I should do/should be writing. But I've started this...because I'm stupid. XP **

**First, let me say that this fic is ENTIRELY EXPERIMENTAL. I don't exactly know whether or not I should continue it, because I'm not sure how well the idea will work out in practice, since it's totally unrealistic. However, if people tell me that they want this to go on, I shall most definitely do my best on it. In other words...REVIEW AND TELL ME IF YOU WANT ME TO GO ON. XD And feel free to nitpick this story for all it's worth if you want...I like harsh criticism, and I thrive on suggestions! This is obviously the prologue, so, should I continue this, later chapters will probably be much different (and actual include the characters themselves). **

**Finally, I am in NO WAY trying to portray world peace or the beautiful message of John Lennon's "Imagine" in a negative light. It's just my overactive imagination, music, and my Hetalia obsession corrupting my mind. ^^ This story is purely about how some would go about getting peace in the wrong way.**

**ENJOY! I clearly do not own Hetalia or "Imagine".**

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><p><strong><em>Prologue<em>**

_"Imagine there's no countries. It isn't hard to do."_

_No…it isn't hard to do at all. It isn't hard to imagine a world without nations, without borders, without flags, without ethnicity. A world united, the human race made whole. So many differences abolished._

_Sounds wonderful, doesn't it?_

_Let's play a game. Let's play "Imagine"._

_Let's imagine that there really _were_ no countries. The Earth had been united under one rule, one body—we'll call that single governing body TERRA. They had done the impossible, that which men has wished for since the first civilizations spilled the first crimson drop of blood on the grounds of a battlefield._

_TERRA—the savior of a weary planet, the bringers of a long-lost dream—TERRA had brought world peace. _

_Sounds wonderful, doesn't it?_

_How had they accomplished such a feat? Not overnight, mind you. It was over a period of many years, many decades. They spread their propaganda and beliefs in a way that was just subtle enough to be noninvasive. Slowly, very slowly, they gained a larger and larger following throughout the globe. As each generation left and was replaced by another, they amassed more and more people who were willing to join their cause. They accepted every one. Soon, their opinions became morals for billions. TERRA members held more and more positions as activists, lawyers, government leaders. They helped stop conflicts throughout the land, though few knew how they really managed it. The changes began to happen—most fully believed that they were happening for the better._

_That's when they began act on their mission of total unification. "_Una terra est terra convenit"_: "One Earth is an Earth in harmony." This slogan rang out clearly from the mouths of the people across the continents. No more countries—nothing to divide or disrupt this newfound peace._

"Una terra est terra convenit!"_ the masses cried. _"Unaterra est terra convenit!"

_Of course, there was resistance. In a population of seven billion strong, there is bound to be those who still disagree. But these small rebellions were put down easily. After all, the opinion of the majority was that TERRA had never disappointed them before…why should they lose faith now?_

"Una terra est terra convenit! UNA TERRA EST TERRA CONVENIT!"

_And so, the countries of the world were made no more. _

_Let's imagine that they were all forced to disappear, shunned. Let's imagine that they became obsolete, along with all who disputed TERRA's judgments. They didn't die, of course—a nation didn't simply die of old age as a true human being would. But they might as well have vanished off the face of this new-and-improved Earth. And now let's imagine that they went into hiding for so long that they lost their identities, their history. Gradually, as they were all separated and scattered, they lost all recollection of being an empire. They lost all memory of their former lives…for why bother remembering something that no longer has meaning? The only thing they realized was the fact that they were somehow different._

_Sounds wonderful…doesn't it?_

_This is the story of those countries that were no longer countries._

_Let's play a game. Let's play "Imagine"._


	2. Chapter 1

**YOU. YOU ARE ALL SO EPICALLY AWESOME. 83**

**I feel the extreme need to thank all reviewers and subscribers of this story so far, as they convinced me to continue this little story of mine. They are as follows: iChocoLove, Nutty Nerd, Rue-the-Marauder, ExtraPenguin, Losuien, BlueXPinkX21, Cree Stal, isab1400, and NyxSerpent. You are all INCREDIBLY AMAZING and I CANNOT THANK YOU ENOUGH for encouraging me to so much that I actually got this chapter up early! X3 (If I missed any of your names, please let me know so I can include you as well.) **

**Anyway, I HOPE YOU ENJOY~! And please continue to leave reviews!**

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><p>Sunlight strained to get through the grimy windows of the abandoned building, providing meager illumination in the empty room. The Resistance fighter stood with his back against the barren and cracked gray walls, machine gun in hand, keeping watch. Just outside, the hideous, disgusting, repulsive <em>thing <em>that symbolized everything he was against waved at him mockingly in the wind—the flag of TERRA, just one of probably hundreds of thousands that were being proudly displayed in the city at that very moment. Its colors and symbols, he knew, were all supposed to have meaning: the red backdrop of the fabric was meant to signify bravery and dominance, while seven brilliantly white stars—white for peace and enlightenment—represented all the world's continents. These stars seemed to orbit around a large, unadorned circle placed quite obviously in the very center. This was a symbol of the entire Earth.

The Resistance man had his own interpretation of the flag. He saw the heavy crimson hue as the blood of those few who had tried and failed to rise up against the government, the scarlet liquid completely soaking and overwhelming the piece of fabric. The sphere in the middle, then, and the stars that surrounded it as though drawn to it, were a reminder of the way an entire planet had been sucked in blindly, led like naïve sheep, by the ideals of what had started out as a handful of people.

As the banner moved and fluttered gracefully in the gentle breeze, it almost appeared to be beckoning him, like the way a Venus fly trap lured its unwitting prey with the promise of its nectar before delivering a swift death to the insect…

Germany closed his eyes and clutched his weapon more tightly. He had joined the Resistance movement only because he knew the truth, the fate that others faced. He knew that anyone who even gave a hint of speaking out against TERRA were taken to be "converted"—it sounded so much nicer when it was put that way. In reality, they were put through a process of brainwashing, often being abused both physically and mentally, and separated from their families for months and perhaps years on end until their wills at last broke. If in the end nothing worked, they would simply never be seen again. The vast majority of the public wasn't aware of this, or perhaps simply didn't care…after all, it was that person's fault for resisting, wasn't it?

This, among countless other reasons, is why Germany fought. It is why he chose to move around and live in secret like this, rarely staying in one place for more than a week. He did not, however, strive for the rights of his own kind. Countries were a dying breed, anyway, numbering at less than two hundred in the entire world—he had never even met another nation in his life, at least to his knowledge. The cause was a lost one.

And what was a country, anyway? What was it but a rare subspecies of human, one that was apparently not even worthy to show itself amongst other "normal" people?

He suddenly spun around to face a sound he'd heard by the door, only to see two of his fellow revolutionaries walking towards him. He lowered his firearm as one of the men—a tall, dark haired man by the name of Mason—approached him with a characteristically amicable grin.

"We've come to relieve you, Germany! Why don't you step outside for a minute and get some air? It's not healthy to be in here all day, y'know! Tell him I'm right, Josh!"

Mason might as well have been speaking to a wall, for no one had ever known Josh to utter more than approximately two words per week. The robust man simply turned and fixed his hazel-green eyes at a random patch of wall.

It was people like these two whom Germany fought for, as they'd both lost their families to the "conversions".

Mason sighed in defeat and turned his attention back to Germany. "How about it, then? You can't take on all the jobs, y'know!"

Germany hesitated a moment before nodding reluctantly. "Yes, I suppose you're right," he admitted, handing Mason the gun and the rights to guarding the current Resistance base. He didn't particularly enjoy the prospect of going outside. It wasn't because he was afraid of being caught by the police: he'd outrun them before, and he always kept at least two weapons concealed on his person. What he couldn't tolerate were the looks he got from others that were simply passing by…the way people would stare at him, then turn to whoever happened to be next to them and whisper, their words curling and writhing out of their lips like venomous vipers. "Don't look now, but there's a country over there. That's something you don't see every day…and for good reason, the filthy things."

Still, the blonde man stepped out into the fading light of day, the sinking sun painting the distant clouds a fiery magenta. This town that he was currently in was known as Decem. Before the takeover by TERRA, the place had been called something else—what was it again? Something with an F…Florence, that was it. Of course, its former name was all that remained of its history; as it had done in every other city, TERRA had wiped clean and records of this town's past, erasing it entirely.

He sat down on top of a crate, intending to simply stay out there for a few minutes.

That is, until he heard the box under him _squeak._

Within a second he jumped up and pointed held his pistol out at the wooden crate, which was unmarked except for the word "TOMATOES" printed across it in chipping black paint. "Who's there?" The noise he heard definitely sounded human, and could not have been produced by any of the rats and mice that called the gutters home. No, there was surely someone else there with him.

When he received no response, Germany, with his gun still firmly in hand, took a step back towards the box, looking it over to see if there were any openings through which he could peer inside. Then, against his better judgment, he began to cautiously lift off the lid.

Almost instantly after he'd removed it, the contents jumped out at him and began groveling at a thousand words per second.

_"P-please!_ Don't shoot me! I swear I wasn't spying on you or anything! I didn't mean to bother you…I-I just needed a place to stay while I wait for my brother to come back! I can leave right now if you want me to, just don't kill me! I-I can't die right now, it's not—"

Germany promptly silenced the intruder in mid-plead by slamming him up against the hard brick wall and pointing the barrel of his pistol at the man's throat. He glared threateningly at the fearful man before him with eyes of ice and steel, eyes of hardened determination. "I suggest you shut the hell up before I blow your vocal chords right out…" he growled.

The unwelcome guest shook in terror and obeyed, tears shimmering in his widened golden-yellow eyes. It was then that Germany noticed something about this man that was different. "Are…are you a country as well?" he asked after a long pause.

The man gulped and nodded, the odd curl on the side of his head bouncing as he did so. "Y-yes…my name is Italy. W-what's yours?"

Germany narrowed his eyes in suspicion and pressed the gun against "Italy's" throat. Though his expression remained as stolid as ever, inside he was bewildered. He couldn't for the life of his fathom how this scrawny weakling, this person who surrendered himself on the spot and who jumped at his own shadow, could survive as a country in this world.

"That is none of your concern," he muttered in a voice that was quite but full of menace. "Now what's your business here?"

It seemed that whatever miniscule shred of confidence this Italy person had left in his body was now gone, as he could only stare at his assailant and weep hopelessly.

At last, Germany allowed his frustration to get the better of him. He seized the trembling country by the collar of his shirt and began pulling him away. "Come with me."


	3. Chapter 2

**So, this chapter turned out...WEIRD. 0_o I'm not going to say much else, because I don't want to give anything away, but I'm warning you now...I think my muses had a mind of their own. In any case, despite the weirdness, I still hope that you enjoy this chapter and that it is worthy of your time, and I thank you just for clicking on it! But...yeah. I'm not used to writing short author's notes. XDDD**

**And now, to thank my AWESOME reviewers, subscribers, and favoriters of the last chapter! ^^ THANK YOU Ru Tsuna, Cree Stal, Hikari Kame, Meso the Hanyu, oO Gabgalrox Oo, BlueXPinkX21, and ForeverHoneyBee...you guys are all AMAZING, especially those of you who reviewed twice! 8D**

**PLEASE ENJOY!**

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><p>"Don't move," the mugger whispered, voice as soft as a snake's hiss, pressing the black pistol harder against the temple of his victim. "Not an inch."<p>

The latter nodded frantically and obediently as he sniffled and whimpered for mercy. Loud, pathetic sobs escaped the traumatized man, causing violent tremors to wrack his thin, vulnerable body. "P-please…d-don't shoot. I-I've got money…that's w-w-what you want, i-isn't it? You c-can take it all, I-I swear! S…stop this, please…d-damn the countries…d-d-damn them all to hell…"

The assailant listened to the man's tear-choked pleas and curses unemotionally before slamming him into the nearest brick wall, not allowing the gun barrel to stray from its spot against his head. The eyes of his prey were widened so that the iris of hazel seemed to dwarf the dilated pupil. Cold, nervous sweat poured down the tormented person's white face, streaming in salty rivers off his forehead and along his gaunt cheekbones, the moisture glistening slightly under the eerie light of the cloudy day.

The attacker found the whole sight rather dull.

After all, he'd grown used to displays such as these since he'd been forced into this life of crime by the rise of the government.

"Smart choice," he muttered in a harsh, intimidating tone as he searched through the man's pockets before locating a wallet and pulling out a handful of smooth, crisp, green paper. The currency bore the same celestial symbols that decorated the flag of the government. The money was measured in an amount called an Auro.

At last, when he was sure no cash was left on the man, England withdrew his firearm from the fearful individual's skull, allowing him to run off into the night. "Leaving so soon?" he wondered aloud with a bitter chuckle. Sighing, he looked over the loot he'd just gathered, counting his catch. Forty Auros—enough to last him a week on the black market and buy him a few beers.

He began trudging through the streets as a light rain began to fall from the blue-gray clouds, drops steady and solemn. He was never actually going to kill the man he'd just robbed…he preferred saving his bullets for more serious confrontations. His threats were rarely anything but empty ones, made convincing by his deadly glares and careful choice of words.

In fact, he never murdered any of the people from which he stole. Just because he'd been forced into this life—this fate he received for being a nation—didn't mean he had to drag others down with the ship.

A little ways off, he could see a massive, grandly adorned structure, a palace rising up starkly and almost defiantly against the increasingly heavy rain. The great edifice seemed to look down on everything and everyone who passed by. England couldn't decide if it was welcoming or imposing…perhaps both.

Either way, it was now used one of TERRA's largest and most impenetrable money-holding facilities. Rumor had it that this building—the Louvre, it had once been called—formerly housed great masterpieces that spanned all time periods, priceless artifacts and works of genius.

He didn't believe it for a minute.

It was then that he heard the echoing thunder of a gunshot fired behind him, and a small copper projectile whizzed past his head, nearly grazing his ear.

Immediately England spun around, drawing his own weapon out of the holster on his thigh and holding it with both hands at arm's length out in front of him, in the direction from which the surprise attack had come. "Don't tell me it's you again, you bloody bastard!"

From the gray, rain-wrapped shadows came a malevolent chuckle. "I see you just couldn't stay away, could you?" the hidden shooter mocked.

"_Sod off, you fucking moron!" _England furiously spat back, every muscle tensed and prepared to pull the trigger.

"I thought I told you last time you were here that you weren't to come back…" The reply was low and full of foreboding. The disembodied voice had changed from condescendingly teasing to fiercely serious in an instant.

England watched intensely as a human figure emerged from the dimness of an abandoned alleyway. It advanced towards him slowly, sickeningly bold and nonchalant, seemingly oblivious the increasingly heavy storm as it stepped through murky puddles.

Behind England's forest eyes, flames of rage sprung up and turned his vision a bloody, watery red. These imaginary fires were only ignited when he was in the presence of that pompous, scum-sucking excuse for a country-the one known as France.

"I told you that if you came back…I'd kill you." The blonde dirt-bag continued padding towards him with all the hideous arrogance of a strutting peacock. He was surprisingly well-groomed for a nation at this time…but that was only because his means of income was so profitable. His black boots gleamed boastfully even on this overcast day. Though his cape was moth-eaten and frayed at the edges, he still somehow managed to keep the rest of his clothes decent enough (though most of his attire still appeared to have seen wear over the years). Clear aqua eyes framed by sweeping golden locks seemed to invite a challenge. And that smirk—that brazen, appalling, obscene, serpent-like smirk never ceased to drive England insane.

Said man snarled in disgust. "Still running that whore-house of yours, I see."

"Now, that's not very nice, England," France pretended to pout. "My ladies and I must stay alive just as much as you do." As if on cue, a timid-looking, short-haired young girl in a striped maroon dress hurried through the rain towards the brothel that was carefully concealed behind several abandoned buildings. Before she could reach it, France beckoned her over and showed her to England. "Lili here, for example," he continued, "works here every now and then to make extra money for herself and her brother."

The "employee" turned her face away shamefully away from England, her indigo ribbon hanging limp amidst her sandy hair.

"Now, go on and change for your customers, sweetheart," France told the girl softly, shooing her off so he could once again look at his fellow country, who was now more infuriated than ever. Prostitution was illegal, but that never once hindered France or anyone else who could make money off that particular form of "recreation".

"You've certainly got yourself a nice little money-making setup there, don't you?" England growled sarcastically, fat raindrops trickling like sweat off his thick brow.

The sleazy man gave him another conniving smile in return. "So how's life as a street-rat, England? I certainly wouldn't know…"

"_YOU BASTARD!" _He fired three shots, which France managed to dodge with difficulty. He was not, however, quick enough to pull out his own gun before England grabbed him by the shirt collar and shoved him against a building with enough force to cause a few drops of blood to escape his lips.

"What the hell makes you think you're Mr. High-and-Mighty, huh? Just because you've found some way to make a few more bucks than the rest of us lot? _You hypocritical piece of shit! LOOK AT YOURSELF! _Look at what you do! _You've had to stoop just as low as everyone else! Don't you get that?"_

Before he could finish his rant, he felt France's foot collide excruciatingly with his crotch, forcing him to collapse to his knees on the soaked ground. With an almost crazed look in his blue eyes, France began his own tirade.

"_You think I don't know any of that? _I'm just trying to get by as well! At least I provide a service in return! At least the women get their share of the profits as well! All you do is steal and bully and con people out of their cash! _So don't act like you're any more righteous than I am!"_

"_WHY, YOU-"_

Both of them were stopped by the sound of a lone gunshot fired into the air, which echoed through the streets before being drowned out by the patter of the persistent rainfall.

The two of them looked over to see a man with his head down, eyes covered by a black fedora. In his hand was a large rifle, and even without the light of the sun that day, it was perfectly easy to see the grin on his face.

"And just who the hell are you?" England questioned suspiciously.

The unwelcome intruder's smile grew wider, showing of a row of white teeth. "Heh, heh…_I'm the hero, of course!"_


	4. Chapter 3

**Firstly: AUGH! I am an idiot! DDDX I posted the last chapter without mentioning that it was not directly tied to the chapter before it...and now I am kicking myself, because in my opinion, that completely ruins the mood and takes away the suspense of not knowing who the mystery nation is at first. So I am VERY, VERY SORRY if anyone was confused by that. DDD': Thank you, ExtraPenguin, for bringing that to my attention. I will say it right now, just so we're clear: this chapter, like the chapters before it, is an exposition all on its own and involves different characters than the ones before it. The next chapter, however, will not be like this.**

**I'll be honest: I'm a bit disappointed with myself. ;_; I was really looking forward to writing this particular chapter, and I think it just turned out sort of...BLEH. DX I feel like I could have done a lot more with it, but the plot sort of took on a mind of its own, and I guess I sort of backed myself into a corner. That and I was having a bit of writer's block...^^' Basically what I'm trying to say is: it's too short! *shame***

**That being said, this chapter does include several of my favorite characters, so it was still quite fun to do. :P I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!**

**PEOPLE WHO PWN: The Dino that writes- Rawr, ExtraPenguin, Cree Stal, NONAMESWEREAVAILABLE, Howl's Owls, IdiotFromOsaka, and HELLO MY NAME IS -RANDOMNESS. **

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><p>The gang member hurried down the series of barren, unfriendly hallways. He silently prayed that he would not be spotted, that no one was around to hear the clatter of his shoes smacking against the floor as he ran. He was late to the meeting, and he knew his boss was bound to be less than thrilled by the time he showed up.<p>

Of course, it wasn't as though he hadn't been punished for such an offense before.

After what seemed like an eternity of wandering through the hideout's maze, he reached the gray double doors and burst through them into the meeting room. To his immense shock and relief, it was entirely dark and devoid of people. Not bothering to spend time groping for the light switch, he found his way through the blackness and located his usual seat.

He was attempting to catch his breath when the cold fluorescent ceiling bulbs suddenly sprang to life, filling the room with a harsh illumination. It blinded him for a moment before he recovered and saw the one thing he wished he didn't have to, the scene that created a sinking feeling in his stomach like an anchor of dread.

The leader of the gang sat at the head of the table, surrounded by all of his underlings. Though his mouth was partially covered by a tattered, off-white scarf, it was still easy to see that he wore a smile: serene, innocent, welcoming, and utterly horrific.

"Why, hello, Lithuania," he greeted cheerfully.

Said country tried to will himself not to tremble in fear. He swallowed nervously before forcing a timid, wavering reply out of his mouth. "I-I'm very sorry, Mr. Russia…y-you see, I w-was preparing for your plans to—"

"Oh, no, no need to apologize now," Russia said sweetly, in an almost sing-song way. "After all, you'll be much sorrier later."

Again Lithuania gulped, and again he felt a shiver slither rapidly up his spine and spread throughout his body in a terrified tremor.

And again his boss grinned that grin which was so lovely and mocking and insane all at the same time, that grin which was such a beautiful mask: so perfect for shielding the grotesque, demonic face that hid behind it.

Lithuania recalled previous beatings that he'd received from his crazed master. They were terrible and all-too-familiar visions, memories bathed in the shadows of a dim, dirty room and accompanied by the music of the lash against his pale, bare back, over and over and over again.

Whip. Whip. Whip.

Pain. Pain. Pain.

Smile. Smile. He was forced to smile through the hurt.

He would rather be anyone else in this entire damned world than a participant in this gang, the one called the Iron Curtain. It was run with a sort of twisted organized chaos, and it was controlled by the most chaotic and yet the most cool and calculating among them.

As it said in the gang's slogan: "Once the Curtain is closed, there is no escape."

Russia turned to the other members, who up until this point had kept in an uneasy silence. "Now then, Estonia…why don't you tell us again about your plan for our next attack?"

The clever nation nodded and pushed his glasses farther up on his nose before speaking. "Well, there is a group of affiliated government-run banks centered around this area here." He drew a circle around a rather vague cluster of red spots on a slightly faded map. "They are heavily guarded, of course…but I believe it shouldn't be hard to find a weakness in their defenses. Once we accomplish that, we could easily attack them all at once."

"Hmm," Russia mused. "What do you think, Latvia?"

In response, the small country whimpered and cowered with all the terror of a mouse that had just come face-to-face with a cobra. As usual, Belarus stood protectively behind Russia, knife in hand. Ukraine simply nodded obediently, causing her breasts to jostle against each other rather obnoxiously.

"It's settled then!" Russia announced jovially, as his mask began to slide slowly but apparently off his face. His charming little smile was beginning to give way to a maniacal countenance; his lavender eyes were almost glowing, as though Hell itself burned inside them.

He brought a hand up to his face, as though he could already see and feel crimson liquid running through his fingers. The money wasn't the most important thing to him. He simply wanted the sheer power that came from possessing ten thousand or so Auros. He always wanted more power, always more power. "And then, after we slaughter everyone there, we'll-"

He stopped abruptly and spun his head around towards the door, clearly having heard something beyond it. The followers of the gang copied his reaction.

The maddened eagerness seemed to rush through Russia as he mumbled, "I think we have a visitor, ladies and gentlemen…and I think it's our usual friend."

He sped out the door. The thief had already heard his footsteps and started running, but Russia would not let that deter him. With the other five behind him, he gave chase until finding himself outside in a dead-end street where no one was to be seen. The only sound was the sweeping wind, the only movement that of a lone rat scurrying across the asphalt and out of view.

Russia chuckled at the nothingness. "I know you're here, and you know I know you're here. Why don't you come out, now? Russia won't hurt you."

The hidden intruder gave no response.

"We could use your skills as a robber. Just the fact that you've managed to evade me this long impresses me more than you know. Come now—start putting those abilities to good use and join us, why don't you? We could do great things together, all of us."

Still no response.

Russia laughed softly again, then pulled out a machine gun from under his long coat and began firing wildly and at random into the night. Sadly, no lead-filled body fell prostrate into the street before him.

"I'll be waiting," he whispered gently before walking away, the rest of the gang trailing behind him.

Several minutes after she was sure the last of her pursuers had left, Hungary cautiously emerged from her position crouched behind a trash can. Her sharp emerald eyes scanned her surroundings to ensure that she really had escaped before she looked to see how much she had gained from her latest plundering of the Iron Curtain's vault. It wasn't as much as she'd hoped to gather, since she'd had to rush out so quickly, but it would have to do for now.

She skulked off through the streets, the maniac's echoing words haunting her with every step. She wondered why he continued trying so hard to get at her and make her unite with his cause. She was a competent criminal, yes…but she was still just one other country trying to scrape by a meager day-to-day existence.

Either way, she would never for a moment consider joining the gang. She had tried trusting other people before. All they'd ever done was try to take away the freedom she'd always desired.

TERRA…that's what they'd done.

And she was better off on her own anyway.

Suddenly she felt one burly arm come from behind wrap around her body. Another went her mouth so that her ability to bite or scream was taken away. She hardly had time to struggle before she was dragged backwards into a darkened building.


	5. Chapter 4

**I'm sorry that this update was, once again, rather late. T_T I promise that I will try to get a better schedule worked out for when I'm going to post these chapters! On the upside, though, my summer is now basically open, so that should be easy to accomplish! ^^**

**Um...honestly, I don't really know how I feel about this chapter. In theory, the last chapter was supposed to be the last of the expositions, but there will still be a lot of character introductions, etc. in this chapter and coming ones.**

**I'm happy that I made**** this chapter ****longer than the others, but...GAH, I DON'T EVEN KNOW. 0_o Enough of my pointless chatter...anyway, thank you SO MUCH for reading, and REVIEWS ARE GREATLY APPRECIATED!**

**The following people are reviewers, subscribers, and favoriters...in other words, they are indisputably AWESOME: FlyingRaven, NONAMESWEREAVAILABLE, Blazing Rubellite, IdiotFromOsaka, Nutty Nerd, The Dino That Writes- Rawr, and dancer4life1234. I would also like to thank an anonymous reviewer: I'm SO happy you like the story, and please, by all means, continue to lurk! ;D**

**ENJOY!**

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><p>It didn't take long for Germany to conclude that he simply could not comprehend this unfamiliar nation.<p>

It seemed that this curled-haired idiot just did not get it. He could not or would not wrap his mind around the fact that the vast majority of the world viewed him as subhuman, unworthy, an unclean being destined only to lead an unclean life in the filth of their own sin.

A country.

Impure and cursed.

That is not how this Italy person acted. He was apparently oblivious to the desperation of his surroundings, and that of his own condition. He had some sort of invisible shield of constant happiness around him, making him impervious to the blows dealt by everyday life. He was found with his skin clinging to his unhealthily exposed ribs…yet he was selective about the food he was given as though there was a gourmet restaurant on every street corner. He was plagued by his circumstances…yet he napped all day as though he didn't have the slightest trouble that might disturb his frequent slumber. He was surrounded by the cold, unkind silence of a world that had never helped him, that was averse to his existence…yet he sang to himself and talked about the most trivial subjects, almost in direct defiance of the animosity all around him.

He thrived. And that was rather infuriating, in a way.

When Germany had first brought him back to the Resistance for them to decide what to do with him, they allowed him to stay out of pity. Nearly everyone now regretted the decision…none more so than Germany, who had gone from soldier to baby-sitter in less than a week.

In fact, keeping an eye on the strange man was precisely what he was doing at that moment. He was doing all in his power to block out Italy's pointless banter, which had the ability to wheedle its way into his brain no matter how much he tried to ignore it or drive it out. He found it degrading, to say the least, that he had been paired with this weakling, who seemed to have no intention of so much as picking up a gun…but he supposed that was what he got for stumbling upon the man.

"Hey, Germany! Germany!" the foolish nation called suddenly, jumping up from his position sprawled luxuriously out on the concrete floor.

The blonde suppressed a groan. "Now what do you want? If you want me to share my food with you again, you can forget it!"

"No, that's not it!" The jovial man smiled obnoxiously. "I was just wondering what our next duty was after we're done standing guard! I'm ready for anything!"

"I don't know," Germany stated bluntly. He always tried to keep his replies to Italy as brief and curt as possible, hoping that eventually the latter would lose interest in trying to make conversation with him.

No such luck, of course. "Well, whatever we do, I'm sure it'll be awesome! I really can't believe that I'm part of a big secret movement-thingy like this! It's so-"

For the second time since they'd met, Germany grasped Italy in frustration and shoved him backwards, up against the wall. The smaller man's eyes widened to reveal the unique honey color, irises of glistening hardened amber.

"You _idiot!" _the soldier hissed, his confined aggravation breaking free and rapidly escaping by way of his tongue. "Do you not understand what we do here? How the hell can you just lie there and sing your stupid songs and shit all day? People in this 'movement-thingy' are risking their lives and their freedom…_you're _risking your life just by being here! And you just sit here like you don't see any of it. I know you've been through hell—what country hasn't? But you still just act like you don't have a care in the freaking world!"

He paused for a moment, glaring at Italy, before continuing in a quieter tone. "Why the hell don't you get it? Why don't you get that you're hated by other people because of what you are?"

Germany's fellow nation responded to his outburst with a quizzical look, cocking his head slightly to the side. "But I do know that," he said after a while. It was his same voice as always…but something had changed. It was quieter and held traces of a hidden, untapped wisdom that dwelled within this country that was seemingly so naïve and childish. His hazel eyes were slightly glazed over, as though focused on something far in the distance. "I have no reason to hate myself if everyone else is doing the job for me…do I?"

Germany was taken aback by the unexpected remark, forgetting about his anger. Before he could come up with a suitable retort, another Resistance member stepped in, looking urgent. "Germany! We've detected some suspicious activity nearby, in the northern part of town. It's definitely not TERRA, and it doesn't look all that big, but we're still not sure what to make of it. Will you go check it out?"

Germany shook himself out of his confusion and let go of the smaller nation. "Very well…I'll do it."

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><p>It wasn't long before he and Italy (who had gone right back to spouting his stream of meaningless chatter) reached the decrepit building to which they had been sent to investigate. The place was cracked and crumbling, looking about ready to cave in on itself at any moment. The windows had been partially boarded up long ago, and the plywood that covered them was beginning the slow but inevitable process of decay. Those which were not concealed were clearly not useable for their original purpose any longer, due to the thick layer of dirt and insect excrement and God-knows-what-else that had built up on the glass panes over a period of what must have been years.<p>

The place was an eyesore, to put it mildly, but it did not come across as terribly threatening.

Still, Germany pounded forcefully on the gray, paint-chipped door, with Italy close behind him. "If anyone is in there, come out now! We are armed!" It wasn't a complete lie—he had given Italy a fake gun, since he did not quite trust him with the real thing.

There was no response.

He banged his fist against the wood harder. "If you refuse to come out, we'll come in!"

The man inside the building did not bother to move even as the noise outside became more and more persistent and impatient. It was as though he heard it while underwater: the sound muffled, scattered, distorted. He was once again in his own universe, the one he'd steadily forged from his imagination and gradually built up on the foundations of his insanity.

_Am I going mad?_

He watched transfixed as—in a miniscule, insignificant corner of a miniscule, insignificant planet—a life-or-death drama was taking place. In that corner, an expertly crafted spider's web had been constructed, strands of silk disappearing and reappearing as the light caught them at different angles. In this delicate and fatal net, an unfortunate ant struggled desperately to break free of its sticky bonds, not knowing that the more it fought and writhed, the more ensnared it would become. The dry and twisted bodies of other entombed insects foreshadowed the tiny creature's fate. An eight-legged murderer crept along the near-invisible threads towards its prey, cautious but eager for its meal. It came closer, closer…

He sympathized with the ant.

_Am I truly going mad?_

It wasn't until the door behind him was kicked open with a splintering crash that he so much as made the effort to glance in the direction or the noise. When he did, he was met by two rivals—one who had both a gun and a glare trained on him, and the other who was attempting to hide away.

For a moment, only silence was shared.

Then: _"Anata wa kangei sa renai."_

Both Germany and Italy stopped, dumbfounded by the unfamiliar tongue spoken by this unfamiliar person. TERRA had never allowed anyone to speak another language other than the Universal Language—not from the very first day they officially came to power. It was strictly illegal. Eventually, as a result, all other dialects had been forgotten.

Or so it had been thought.

Germany was the first to recover from the surprise, resuming his hard scowl. "Stop with the gibberish…who are you?"

"_Anata wa kangei sa renai. _You don't understand me, do you? It means, 'You are not welcome.'"

Slowly, unhurried, the man finally turned around to fully face the two countries. Germany was shocked by his condition. Even though the man's outfit was baggy, it was obvious that he was even worse than Italy had been: he was emaciated, with pale skin wrapped tightly bones with no visible muscle or fat to speak of. A fleshy skeleton. His half-lidded brown eyes were framed by dark circles. They were apathetic, unemotional, dead. Any feelings he may have had at that moment seemed to be locked away behind a thick and impenetrable wall, so that it was impossible to detect what he was thinking. His gaze gave Germany the uncomfortable feeling that the person was looking not at, but _through _him.

"Enough of this!" Germany barked sternly, keeping his finger on the trigger. "What are you doing here?"

The dark-haired man reached behind him and grabbed a long, curved sword. His voice was a monotone whisper, which only made the odd words even more eerie. _"Anata wa kangei sa renai."_

A second later, he began his one-man assault.

Despite his poor body shape, he seemed to suddenly possess the speed of a striking viper. He leapt up almost gracefully, his blade glinting like liquid sliver. Italy yelped, helpless, as Germany managed to block the weapon and send the attacker backwards. He was not, however, quick enough to shoot before the aggressor came back at him, wrapped both hands around his throat and, with impossible strength, began constricting his windpipe.

He continued to stare at the man he was choking with a dull, unfeeling look. "You are probably surprised by my appearance, yes? I rarely leave this place—not even for food. What with the crimes I have committed in the past against the government, I cannot risk showing my face outside often. Anyone could turn me in…_including you._"

Germany desperately gasped as his entire body screamed and ached for oxygen. Italy was still paralyzed with fear.

"But I suppose since you are a country as well…I can assume you won't do that."

The man released his grip, and Germany immediately began taking in gulps of sweet air to quench the burning in his lungs.

"I am Japan…and my answer will always be 'no'."

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><p><strong>Extra AN: Um...I'm pretty sure I messed up the romaji here. *SHAME* I used Google Translate, which is hardly reliable, so if anyone actually knows Japanese, feel free to correct me! ^^'**


	6. Chapter 5

**My God...this chapter...I don't even...T_T**

**I'll be honest-this chapter was really annoying to write. I don't know why, but all of a sudden, I just had a lapse in creativity this week, and I basically had to force myself to write this chapter to get it up at least somewhat on time. That's why I pulled an all-nighter to do it, and that's why I'm posting it at this god-awful hour. XP Anyway...I'm sorry if thw quality is somewhat suckish because of that. I sort of had to rush...**

**But enough of that sob-story, because I have a request from you, the readers! I want to know what to write in the next chapter: should I pick up the cliffhanger from Chapter 3, or should I write more about the Iron Curtain? Please tell me in the reviews!**

**And speaking of my AWESOME REVIEWERS, SUBSCRIBERS, AND FAVORITERS, a massive THANK-YOU to: NONAMESWEREAVAILABLE, Howl's Owls, Super Sister, Lady Psychopath, Yoly, and my anonymous reviewer.**

**PLEASE ENJOY! REVIEWS ARE INCREDIBLY APPRECIATED!**

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><p>The "hero", this nation called himself.<p>

_What a claim._

Though perhaps it wasn't entirely surprising, considering the man appeared to have all the tact and logic of a fruit fly. Anyone who strode right into the middle of a heated street-fight between two men he'd never met before in his life—so utterly foolhardy and ignorant—couldn't have had much going on beneath that fedora of his. That wasn't heroic…it was downright stupid.

But it seemed that he wasn't about to stop there.

No, he continued walking with a swagger in his step, boldly approaching the two rival countries. Now that he was closer and no longer so well hidden behind the curtain of the downpour, England could scrutinize the young newcomer. Beneath the black hat, wild locks of golden blonde hair stuck out drastically against the drab surroundings. One strand in particular curled upwards, seeming to disobey the laws of gravity. Behind a pair of spectacles were vivid eyes the color of the sea. They were almost like France's, but something about them was different. These eyes held a zest for life—that much was certain. But there appeared to be hints of something else, something unidentifiable…

Beyond that, he wasn't much to look at: in fact, he seemed to be in shambles. His brown leather bomber jacket, which had once upon a time probably had a fine luster, was now tattered and coated with mud. His long pants and boot weren't doing much better. He certainly didn't look anything like a champion out to save this godforsaken world.

_He's just delusional, _England decided. _No one can reverse the damage that's been done._

He glared, meeting the gaze of the "hero". "Don't play games with me, you bloody moron. Tell me who you are!"

The odd country chuckled again. "The name's America!" he proclaimed loudly. Don't tell me you haven't heard of me before…I'm famous!"

"Sure you are, pal," England muttered doubtfully before looking behind him and seeing France running, having seized the opportunity to get away. _"Damned coward!" _he called after the fleeing man, leaving only his resounding shout to pursue the bastard.

"_So!" _America bellowed in his unpleasantly loud voice. "You look like a pretty smart guy…why don't you come with me? I could always use more backup! What do you say?"

England scoffed, wondering if there was any end to this brazen man's nerve. "Yeah…and just what makes you think I'd have the slightest interest in doing that, git?"

The other nation smirked and pulled a silver object out of his pocket. "For one thing…I've got your gun!" he mocked before he took off, his jacket flying behind him, laughing that annoying, grating laugh as he went.

"_You bloody idiot!" _England dashed off after the thief, mentally slapping himself for being mindless enough to leave his weapon lying there of the pavement. This guy—he treated all this like a game. He truly believed this bullshit he spouted: that he was somehow invincible, mightier than the rest, a shining light that had been sent to scatter the blackness and shadows that had been cast over the globe.

_Damned fool._

America suddenly turned a corner and ground to a halt, causing England to do the same. Originally it appeared as though he did so simply because he had accidentally come to a dead end.

But instead of acknowledging the supposed mistake, America turned around to smirk at England before reaching behind a pile of assorted junk and came out with two translucent brown bottles, their insides sloshing with liquid. Scotch.

"I call it my secret horde." America winked as he handed England one of the bottles and uncapped the other for himself. "Cheers!" He clinked the glass container in his hand against the one in England's, creating a melodious _ping _before he tipped the amber liquid into his mouth and allowed it to flow down his throat in a miniature river.

His fellow nation, on the other hand, cocked his thick eyebrow in suspicion. It was quite clear to England that this fool was trying to get him drunk. Probably this America meant him some form of harm, or at least wanted to get something out of him. For a country, friendship was about as plentiful as self-respect.

He wasn't afraid to admit that he was the type who could hold his liquor better than the average man, yet still usually managed to have one too many. But he wouldn't allow himself to fall into that trap this time. He wouldn't be duped, especially not by this moron.

Still, a sip couldn't hurt, could it?

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><p><em>Crash. Crash. Crash.<em>

That was what the rhythmic throbbing inside his head felt like—someone bashing a heavy concrete object against his skull over and over as though trying to break through the barrier of bone. Not that it would matter: his brain felt as though it had been turned to mush as well, a lump of useless pink tissue.

_Crash. Crash. Crash._

Why the hell wouldn't it stop? Why wouldn't the fucking light just stop fucking shining already? He wanted the night to finally fall and snuff out the last of the sun's disgustingly persistent rays, and he wanted all the streetlights to go out so that their obnoxious, blaring illumination could not seep through his eyes and aggravate this damned headache.

He didn't even have any idea of how much time had passed—presumably not much, since the day had only just begun to surrender to dusk and the rain still pattered just as steadily and heavily as before, the beat of water against pavement seeming to match the pounding pulse in his mind. He did not know how much booze he'd gulped down…only that that stupid other country—what was his name again? America…? Yeah that was it—only that America had given him the stuff in the first place.

Said man looked at him and laughed out loud, only serving to make the pain in his head even worse. "_Man_, you really got yourself hammered, didn't you?"

_CRASH. CRASH. CRASH._

"Shut the fuckin' hell up, bastard…" England slurred. He tried to focus his vision, but gave up when he realized that he was seeing about three Americas at once. "You're makin' it worse."

That laugh came again, comparable to the sound of a knife being sharpened next to his ear. "You always get like this when you start drinking?"

The drunkard muttered something unintelligible in reply.

It was then that he registered something cold and metallic being clamped around both his wrists.

"Of course," America continued, this time in a tone that appeared to be uncharacteristically quiet…and almost menacing. "it's probably not often that you get drugged liquor."

England, sobering more and more by the moment, straightened up and realized that the asshole had just put him in handcuffs. "What the hell? Get me out of these, you stupid jackass! I swear to God I'll—"

"You don't believe I'm the hero, do you?" America interrupted. His voice caught England off-guard. It had changed in an instant from that of a young, loud-mouthed dunce to that of one who was cold and calculating and _maniacal. _

England cleared his throat nervously. "What are you talking about?"

"I'll show you…I'll prove it!" America whispered, then looked across the street to see a lone man walking down the block. Immediately, he pulled out his gun, aimed, and…

_CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!_

It was not in his head this time—it was the sound of three bullets rapidly exited the weapon, one after another. Each one hit the innocent pedestrian with surprising accuracy, the small copper pellets penetrating flesh, cutting through muscle like air, and smashing bone. The man fell as though he'd been struck from behind, and immediately a scarlet pool began to form around the fresh body, enlarging by the moment as though it would keep growing until it swallowed up all in its path.

England turned to face the killer, shocked. The eyes he met were America's blue ones…but they were now so different that they were almost unrecognizable. All the vitality had left them, like a sky without birds, an ocean without fish. They were empty, glazed…_dead. _

"…You see that? I saved that guy there. He no longer has to go through the trouble of living. I _am _a hero."

He wasn't delusional. He was absolutely, undoubtedly _insane._

With the gun still in his grasp, America pulled a small, rectangular object out of his pocket—a deck of playing cards. "Of course," he went on in that soft, mysterious, deranged tone, "it was just by chance that he happened to be there. It was just by chance that he was there for me to save."

England watched as the cards were shuffled, the red and white and black blurring before his eyes. America laid three of them out on the ground before him, face down, identical.

"N-now, look!" England snapped, finally finding his voice, struggling against the cuffs. "I've had enough of your shit! Why don't you just-"

"So now, you take your chance. I even put the odds in your favor. Two of these cards are Jokers; one is the Ace of Spades. Pick a Joker, and I'll be the hero and shoot you. Pick the Ace, and I won't save you. So go on…take your pick."


	7. Chapter 6

**NYAHAHA! After another all-nighter, the chapter's on time...IZ HAPPY! ^^ (Here's hoping it's not suckish...XP) **

**I'd like to dedicate this particular chapter to my friends, especially AUHolmesPianoPlayer and Megan (I don't know if she's changed her username here or what, so...XD) They've been helping me with this by giving me ideas and opinions. YOU GUYS ARE SOOOOOOO FREAKING EPIC! 8DDDDD **

**MY AWESOMELY AWESOME REVIEWERS, SUBSCRIBERS, AND FAVORITERS: Yoly, J. E. McCormickGal, NONAMESWEREAVAILABLE, BlazingKaiogra, cheezeruleszolp, Super Sister, Yoru no Yoku, and two anonymous reviewers. YOU ALL DESERVE MANY, MANY COOKIES. **

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><p>She knew what it meant to be made prey. She'd been both hunter and hunted in the past, after all. It really came down to the matter of being in exactly the wrong place at exactly the wrong time.<p>

She recalled once when she'd observed a cat as it stalked a blissfully unaware mouse. The latter was not alerted to the danger that crept gradually toward it on silent feline paws until the very last possible second. In that fleeting moment before the predator's tightly wound-up body unleashed its deadliness in one vicious pounce, the rodent's tiny eyes widened. Beady pupils dilated and became deep ebony pools, reflecting all the shock and fear that came with a swift and violent end. They were the eyes of a victim—so utterly helpless.

Yes…helpless. That was the best word to describe how she felt at that moment.

"Kind of late to be wandering around a place like this…isn't it, my pretty little bitch?"

The words of her attacker—flowing so smooth and mocking from his lips—were enough to snap Hungary back to reality. She snarled and writhed and struggled in every attempt to break out of his vice-like grasp. What she was really trying to do was give her arm enough room to move so that she could reach down to the small scabbard that rested against her thigh.

He chuckled malignantly and removed one of his large hands from around her mouth, only to put it around her throat instead and squeezed. She released choked gasps as her airway was slowly cut off, as her lungs began to ache. Still she tried to free her arm…

"Say, you know what sounds good?" The feeling of his sickeningly warm breath against her ear made her skin crawl. "How about after you pass out, I fuck you before I kill you?"

Moments before she felt as though her head would burst from the pressure, that she would spiral down into a terribly tempting unconsciousness, she felt her fingers at last wrap around the hilt of her knife. With her oxygen-deprived muscles screaming in protest, she pulled the blade out and twisted around, driving it deep into the side of her opponent. Mercifully, the sudden pain caused him to let go.

For a moment, she was so preoccupied with taking vast gulps of air that the pang of sharp discomfort in the side of her leg did not register. Then she saw him fumbling with a gun in his hand, and realized that he'd probably fired the thing wildly and managed to graze her calf.

Before he could get a good shot at her, she flew at him, using the sheer momentum from the impact of their bodies colliding to send him backwards onto the asphalt. He was undoubtedly stronger, however, and this time recovered quickly enough so that she did not have the chance to take another stab at him before he grabbed her wrists and pinned her down.

"You've got some goddamn nerve!" he hissed. His eyes were covered by some sort of odd white mask, but the way he bared his teeth was more than enough to show his aggravation.

She responded by kicking him in the stomach, causing him to release his grip just enough for her to roll out from under him. _"No shit!" _

She once again drove the dagger into him, this time slicing cleanly through the vulnerable flesh and muscle that was his abdomen as though it were little more than water.

He let out an angry yell of pain before forcefully shoving her off, clutching his fresh wounds, scarlet color blossoming on his clothes like macabre flowers. He ran while she was still picking herself up off the ground, his footsteps disappearing into the dark.

Hungary scowled in his direction, but did not bother to pursue him. It wasn't worth it…she usually didn't kill unless absolutely necessary anyway. She sat down against the wall to examine her own injury. It certainly wasn't pleasant to look at, spitting out a fairly steady stream of crimson that ran in rivulets down her leg, but it was still little more than skin-surface. She tore off a bit of her own clothing and began patching up the damage. It was certainly nothing compared to what had happened a few years ago…what _they _had done.

Yes, she could still remember it with a horrifying clarity—every color and every noise and every emotion so vivid, so much larger than life. She remembered looking up at the night sky: even it had been against her, it seemed, for clouds hid the stars from view. And she remembered becoming smaller and smaller, shrinking to little more than an insect…or at least, that was how it felt, with all those people looking down at her as she lay curled up on the cold, cold street, so _insignificant_. She could still remember the terror any sane person would feel knowing that the sounds of snapping and crunching were those of one's own ribs breaking.

And oh, yes, the blood. Plenty of that. She remembered the salty taste in her mouth as it mingled with her tears.

And he still wanted her to smile…he wanted everyone to smile. He hated it when people didn't smile, especially in his presence.

She closed her eyes to dull the memory, and automatically her hand went up to the back of her head. Hidden beneath the curtain of her hair, she ran her fingers over the old scar of a deep laceration. It was one of the many she'd gotten that day, but this one had been the worst. Somehow, touching it comforted her. Perhaps it was because it reminded her that she had survived it…and if she could survive that, something such as what had happened today was nothing.

She turned suddenly when she heard the sound of what sounded like leather boots around the corner, stepping slowly nearer.

_Damn…he's back? _She stood up, wincing slightly at the throb in her leg, and once again withdrew her weapon. She waited in silence, pressing herself up against the wall of the alley, using the sound of the stranger's footfall to gauge how much closer he was getting.

Once she decided that he was near enough, she rounded the corner and put the blade to the person's throat…and was met with a gaze that looked as surprised as she now felt. It wasn't the masked aggressor this time. In fact, this man looked to be just about the farthest thing from what she's expected.

First of all, she was having trouble telling exactly _what _he was. It seemed to her that he was a country…yet if one were to only judge by his appearance, no one ever would have guessed it. His navy suit and the snow-white jabot around his neck looked to be of a fairly expensive fabric and were all surprisingly clean, nearly untouched by dirt or other stains-certainly not those of someone who lived off the street. In fact, every part of him looked neat, from the toes of his brown boots to the odd wild curl that stuck out of his hair, quivering slightly in the breeze. His shining violet eyes reflected puzzlement…but otherwise, his emotions appeared to be hidden away, shielded by the transparent masks that were his eyeglasses.

After staring at each other for several long minutes, Hungary was the first to recover enough to speak. "Who are you? Are you a country?"

He met her rather suspicious glare without faltering, giving her an almost condescending look in return. "Yes…I am Austria. And I'm assuming that you're a nation, too?"

_"Igen, seggfej." _She sensed the haughty aura coming from this aristocratic man, and it only made her even less inclined to trust him than before.

Austria cocked an eyebrow at her comment. "What was that last think you just said? I've never heard anything like that before."

For a moment, she didn't understand what he meant. Then, once she realized what he was referring to, she merely shrugged. She wasn't even quite sure how to explain it herself. "I don't know…they're just things that I've always said. It's a different language, I guess. I don't even know where I learned it."

It appeared that he had not heard her, for he was looking her up and down, as though analyzing her every detail. At last: "Aren't you the one who tried to rob the headquarters of the Iron Curtain?"

"Maybe," she growled, growing increasingly irritated by his prying. "What the hell is it to you?"

For a very brief moment, it seemed that a miniscule but clearly amused smirk flickered across his face, appearing and then vanishing as swiftly as a shadow. "Do you have any idea what you've gotten yourself into by stealing from that gang? Do you know what they're capable of?"

The dry chuckle she gave in reply didn't contain a drop of humor—she didn't even bother to accompany it with a smile. She pressed the knife just hard enough against his white flesh to nick it, watching as a brilliantly red trickle formed and ran slowly, almost reluctantly, down his skin.

"I do…considering I used to be one of them."

He scoffed doubtfully. "And you managed to get out with your life?"

She did not respond, only fixing him with a hard glower, a silent warning.

He wisely chose to heed it, changing the subject. "Is there any chance that you're going to remove this weapon anytime soon?"

"Nope."

He did not change his facial expression in the slightest, but the next thing she felt was something cold and hard against her stomach. She glanced down and saw that he was holding a Walther PK 38 pistol—a dainty gun by most standards, but still perfectly capable of killing her at point-blank.

_So he wants to see who's faster, huh?_

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><p><strong>Ah-HA! Surprise extra author's note! X3<strong>

**I'd just like to make it clear that I don't hate Russia or Turkey...I just antagonize them in my stories a lot. Don't ask me why: it just HAPPENS. XD Anyway, I'm sorry if I'm hard on them in this story.**

**Also, to anyone who's read my story "When I Ruled the World"...I'm sorry if this chapter was too similar to that. ^^'**

**Anyway...REVIEW! 83**


	8. Chapter 7

**Well, what can I say about this chapter...? On the one hand: YAY, IT'S (sort of) EARLY! 8D AND LONGER THAN THE OTHERS! On the other, though...I'm just not sure I like the overall quality. T_T I like putting references from the actual story in just to make it interesting and keep the countries in character, but I'm worried that this chapter relied too much on those references...**

**That being said, from this point on, the plot of this fic will loosely follow that of the actual story and, in some cases, actual history. :P That will be evidenced here! **

**Extra Disclaimer: I do not own the direct quote from the anime that I used *cough*stole*coughcough* here...XP**

**My reviewers and subscribers...do I really have to say how awesome they are? No, but I will: YOU'RE AWESOME! (Like Prussia...XP)**

**Yoly, Mossears of Riverclan, angelsxdemons, NONAMESWEREAVAILABLE, Howl's Owls, cheezeruleszolp, Super Sister and oceanlvr4ever. THANK YOU ALL FOR THE SUPPORT! ^^**

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><p><em>Why are they looking at me like that?<em>

Japan could see it in their eyes, the way the two trespassers gawked at him: the perfect, colorful spheres of their irises widened, threatening to swallow up the bright ebony pupils in a single gulp.

He remembered seeing that same look of bewitched fascination in people watching a performer cross a tightrope at a circus. In their gazes, there was always that sparkle of fear and agonized suspense as the daredevil took yet another step that had every chance of resulting in his death. But still they kept their eyes fixated on his every move. They would not, could not look away…because if they did, they might not see it if by chance he managed to slip off and fall to the ground with a splat, and they would miss out on all the fun.

_They want to see _me _fall. They want to see my composure melt away, and see the fear in me. They're just like the rest, I'm sure. It's too bad that they'll be disappointed…I stop feeling fear a long time ago._

Is that how these two saw him? Is that why they glued their eyes of ocean and hazel to him so intently?

No…maybe it was just because he was so different. Maybe that's why they kept on staring.

…_Am I truly going mad?_

"What…what the hell was that about?" the muscular blonde sputtered, rubbing at the angry red hand-marks around his throat and neck.

Japan put his sword back in its sheath. "You are not supposed to be here. I was going to kill you both…but I realized that you didn't have the need nor the desire to turn me into the government. I am good at sensing the mood in any situation, you know. Now leave this place."

Germany glared, refusing to be so easily daunted. "And what about you? What are you doing in this godforsaken place? You said you shut yourself in here because you committed a crime...well, what country hasn't?"

_Ah, they're still looking at me…why are they looking at me like that?_

The dark-haired man slowly turned to face the interrogator with hollow, emotionless eyes. "As you might imagine, TERRA does not take lightly to having some of their top officials murdered."

Germany's expression immediately changed into one of surprise. He suddenly remembered several years back when he'd gotten word of a campaign led by a single man to bring down the government's strongholds on a series of islands off the coast of the Asian continent. He'd killed governors, military generals...he'd almost accomplished his goal. Almost. Eventually, inevitably, TERRA managed to catch up to him. Shortly after, that mystery revolution leader simply disappeared off the face of the Earth.

Could this Japan have been that rebel?

"Well, why don't you join us, then?"

Germany spun around, incredulous, to see the chestnut-haired nation, who up to this point had been too busy hiding to speak. "Italy-"

"I mean, you can fight really well and all that," he went on, ignoring Germany. "We could use your help!"

Japan's face remained entirely unreadable, but the way he cocked his head slightly to the side betrayed a hint of confusion. "You want me…to join you?"

Italy nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! You'd be great!"

Japan did not so much as blink as a heavy silence once again crept into the room, weighing down on the trio. Germany retrieved his gun, believing that they would have to face a second sudden assault from this mysterious country.

At last, the pair of vacant brown eyes slowly closed, and their owner nodded once. "I will consider it."

Italy beamed happily, taking the ambiguous reply as a 'yes'. "Great! Then let's-"

All of them were immediately stopped in their tracks by a deafening crashing sound in the distance, like the thunder of an approaching storm. It rattled the rickety windowpanes and kicked up dust. Instantly Germany was able to recognize it as the sound of artillery.

The three of them stood frozen in place for several long minutes, as though moving or talking or breathing would result in another massive boom. Finally, Germany slowly made his way towards the door and looked outside, expecting to see complete carnage somewhere nearby.

He was met by…nothing. At least, he thought it was nothing at a first glance. Then he noticed the angry cloud of billowing, inky gray-black smoke not far off that was growing and rising higher and higher above the maze of buildings in the city, seeming to feed on itself. He tried to judge how far away it was. By his estimate, it was right around…

"My God…"

And he ran. He didn't acknowledge that the other two were following him, or that he was running faster than he perhaps ever had before in his life, or that for all he knew he could be slaughtered the moment he at last reached his destination. His entire mind and body became a living machine that was programmed to do one thing: head towards that hideous tower of dark ash. All the while he prayed that his guess was incorrect.

Of course, prayer had never done much for him anyway.

He reached the source of the smoke, the place that had once been the temporary home of the Resistance. Where there had once been a building, there now only lay a smoldering pile of burning wood and blackened, twisted metal and all other forms of debris. Flames still danced brightly and mockingly amidst the destruction, seeming to laugh soundlessly at him as they flickered wildly. And blood—no doubt the blood of his fellow revolutionaries, his comrades—it painted the entire scene in disgustingly bright crimson spatters. Every piece of evidence showed that the place had been blown up by some explosive device, possibly from the inside-out.

Germany couldn't hide the horror on his face as the reality of the situation overwhelmed him, swelling up and washing over him like an ocean tide. The cause to which he'd devoted himself for years, the people who had been a part of that cause: all of it was now little more than fire and crumbling brick and glowing embers that were dying as quickly as his hope. Perhaps the Resistance had always been fighting a losing battle, but at least it had been _something._

Only one word now could escape his mouth.

"TERRA…"

And as if on cue, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Japan as the country once again pulled out his trusted blade. He whirled around and ran the weapon through the chest of a young government soldier who had tried to sneak up on the three of them. The man froze, coughing up a few scarlet dribbles, before falling over with his gun still grasped in a dead hand.

Japan calmly faced his fellow nation. "Right behind you," he said in a monotonous tone.

Germany whipped around and watched as his fist collided with the left cheek off another soldier, knocking him to the ground. He realized that these men were trying to take them alive—otherwise they wouldn't have bothered to get this close.

He looked around and saw still more people approaching: people in uniforms adorned with the same sphere-and-stars that was on TERRA's flag, people with gazes a cold and threatening as the automatic rifles they held.

"Let's go!" Germany took off, leading the others through the streets as bullets and footsteps chased after them. He took every turn and alleyway and backstreet he could in order to shake the pursuers off, and for a while he thought that it may actually be working.

It didn't take very long, though, before Germany heard a terrified wail behind him, one that to which he had become all too accustomed recently.

He looked over his shoulder to see a desperately struggling and sobbing Italy in the clutches of a particularly burly soldier.

_Dammit…that idiot's going to make me rescue him again?_

The assailant chuckled malevolently and pulled out a hunting knife. "Seems like I've caught the weakest of you vermin…well, it's better than nothing, I suppose."

Abruptly, the small country stopped crying. Even from several feet away, Germany could see it: something inexplicable had happened within him. The panic and dread in his eyes had completely left, and was replaced by some sort of dark, furious blaze. He gritted his teeth in an almost wolf-like snarl, an expression of such intensity that Germany never believed Italy would be remotely capable of.

With a newly discovered power, Italy punched the unsuspecting soldier in the face, sending him reeling back with a look of bewilderment. Before he had a chance to react, Italy aimed a kick at his stomach, causing the man to double over in pain.

Germany could only stare in utter shock for a moment, until Italy ran past him. Without a second thought, they ran off and disappeared.

* * *

><p>Later that night, the three men sat around a small fire that they had constructed. (That is, Japan and Germany sat—Italy, who had gone back to his usual naïve self, lay sleeping peacefully on the ground). They realized that there was risk involved in being out in the open like they were, but now that it was night, it was unlikely that the government would bother sending out a search for the likes of them.<p>

"…They'll continue to search for us in the morning, you know," Germany murmured after awhile. He thought of how people in the area would be justifiably curious about the destroyed building. He thought of how TERRA would undoubtedly make up some elaborate lie, perhaps saying that an explosive gas had leaked in and been somehow ignited. They would probably say that no one had been seriously injured…

Japan nodded solemnly. "I suppose we have been somewhat lumped together then, no?"

Germany did not respond, only staring into the burning coals as though they held some sort of answer.

"Why don't we come up with some sort of name for ourselves then? Just so that we can identify ourselves as a group."

Germany looked up. "A team name? What did you have in mind?"

Japan appeared to contemplate it for a moment before speaking. "I was thinking…'Axis'. As in, we are united by an axis, and when we prevail, the world will turn on that axis."

"Axis…" Germany allowed the word to roll of his tongue, as though experimenting with it. He watched as Italy slowly inhaled an exhaled, a characteristically foolish grin plastered on his face, no doubt happily dreaming. "It is decided, then."


	9. Chapter 8

**WHEEEEE! 8DDD Another early chapter! There's a bit of sap at the end here, which was not my original intent...but characters have a mind of their own. XP What can you do? I just hope it doesn't detract too much from the overall mood of the story.**

**Um...yeah. Not much else to say about this chapter. XP It's mostly a filler that's going to set the stage for upcoming events. I hope it's not too boring, though. **

**Random useless note: This isn't a real disclaimer, I guess, but I feel like the songs "Lovely Ladies" from _Les Miserables _and "Shape of my Heart" by Sting deserve some credit here for giving me a lot of inspiration for this chapter. I highly recommend checking them out! ^^ Actually, I have a whole play list of songs I often play while writing this...**

**AMAZINGLY AMAZING PEOPLE: NONAMESWEREAVAILABLE, Yoly, AUHolmes-PianoPlayer, , Unknown Variable, JAGartist, Super Sister, WierdKid20, Girl with the amethyst eyes, Howl's Owls, Doodlebugg, and Deemo. I LUFF YOU ALL! 83**

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><p><em>One-third's chance.<em>

He looked down at the trio of overturned playing cards that had been placed before him, which would have been no more than flimsy rectangles of thin cardboard were they not about to be the deciders of his fate. He tried to fight the rising panic that was building up within him, the instinctive terror that made him feel as though all the air in his chest were being slowly but surely squeezed out by some huge, invisible hand. He exhaled, but could not inhale. He felt a surge of vertigo as he continued to stare down at the hypnotizing geometric design that adorned the back of all three cards, all entirely identical, all entirely and horribly identical. And it was exactly that sameness which would be his downfall.

_One-third's chance. One-third's chance of living._

And glancing up, England met the eyes of his captor; behind those glasses, in the rapidly fading daylight, if one looked at them from just the right angle…they almost seemed to become black.

_One-third's chance. One-third. 1/3. 1 and 3. 3 and 1. _The numbers danced around in his head, seeming to possess minds of their own.

"Go on and pick, dude. A hero can't wait forever!"

Well, what of it? He had gambled plenty of times before, and wasn't too bad at it either, if he did say so himself. And all things considering, his odds could have been much worse.

Besides, he understood that if he didn't choose soon, his chances of getting out of this alive were at just about zero.

"The…the one on the left," England guessed at last, a bit proud of himself for keeping his voice relatively steady. He made a slight gesture with his head since his bound hands were of no use to him. "That's the one I pick."

He could not, however, prevent the anxiety from welling up within him again as the twisted "hero" blinked once without emotion, not giving the slightest hint as to whether his decision was the right or wrong one. Then, in one movement that seemed to take hours, America reached down and flipped the chosen piece of paper over…

Unmasked, the thing revealed the image of a man dressed in lavish, colorful clothing. He danced an idiotic jig and wore an idiotic smile and live to make fun and be made fun of.

A Joker.

England didn't find it very funny at all.

"Well, would ya look at that!" America's voice held an eerily happy and childlike quality, though his blank, unreadable expression had not changed in the slightest. His face may as well have been carved in granite; it was as unflinching as his drive to save the world.

A pair of wild, fearful green eyes looked up, only to be met by the dark void of the inside of a gun barrel. He could feel the beads sweat that he was unable to wipe away drip off his yellow bangs and cascade down his temple.

"Don't worry…no one ever feels any pain when I rescue them."

The sight of the trigger being gradually pulled back was what finally sparked the self-preservation response in England's brain. His heart thudded with all its strength, seemingly trying to punch straight through his ribcage. He could almost feel the adrenaline that washed through his veins and flooded his system, sending every fiber and muscle and nerve into hyper-drive.

"_W-wait! _I've got a better idea!"

America paused and cocked his head slightly to the side, clearly intrigued that his target had the nerve to speak up at a time like this.

"You…said you needed 'back-up' or something, right? I can do that. I'll join you and help you, er…be the hero, was it?"

The other country's stony countenance suddenly melted away, replaced first by a look of surprise and then sheer joy. His once vacant eyes were revitalized, looking now as they had when England had first seen this man. "Dude, you'd seriously do that? No one's ever asked to be my back-up before!"

England took a moment to let out a sigh of immense relief as America took the weapon away from his forehead. "Of course I'll do it." His voice this time was calm, calculating, almost reassuring.

The younger country frowned and glanced downwards suddenly, an almost shameful look on his face. "But…I'll feel bad about it," he began apologetically. "You're being totally awesome by banding together with me, and I can't even repay you by saving you."

He chuckled, realizing that he was in _his _element now—he was a con, someone skilled in the art of benefiting from other people's weaknesses. This man's fault was clearly his gullibility. "It's no trouble, really. It's a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

America leapt up excitedly, a smile wide and bright spread all the way across his face, and went to remove the handcuffs. "Come on, then, man! Let's do this!"

As the exuberant nation ran off, England nonchalantly followed behind him, suppressing the smirk that was trying to pull the corners of his mouth upward in a look of satisfaction. He would just wait until the moron fell asleep, and then let a single bullet do the rest for him.

He enjoyed the thought of never having to hear that stupid laugh again.

_Damned fool._

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><p>The young girl slipped her cranberry dress over her head, allowing the velvety fabric to caress her cold skin. After having had her body exposed for several hours, this provided her with some sort of comfort and familiarity. The muscles in her legs still ached from the night's activities.<p>

She looked at herself in the mirror as she tied her violet hair ribbon into a bow. One would think that, once her customers discovered that she was a country, they would consider her as inferior and turn their noses up at her services. But it was not so for most of the men who visited the brothel—for them, as long as there were enough pussies to go around, they didn't much care whose it was that they were rubbing against. And anyway, she was lucky to have her looks as an advantage…with her slim, white body and her large, watery blue-green eyes and the lovely pale-gold locks that framed her youthful face.

To them, she was irresistible.

She stepped out into the hall and saw Mr. France talking with a few of the other ladies. He grinned amicably when he saw her. "Going home, Lili?" Though it was true that the fact that she was a nation was not of much concern to her clients, it still wasn't something to be advertised in a place like this, and so she was referred to by a "normal" name.

"Yes, sir," she murmured a bit shyly. Despite his disgustingly perverted front, he was not an unkind boss. From what she had heard, he had some sort of personal code against treating women and children badly…then again, "badly" was a relative term. "Well…good night, sir." She gave a quick little bow and hurried outside before he could say anything else. She was running late as it was (that last patron had taken his sweet time).

Though her only desire was to sleep, the rest of the world around her was just beginning to stretch itself out and rub its eyes. The night sky had started to lighten from a pure black to a deep blue, and the natural night-lights that were the stars were no longer visible, although the sunrise was still at least an hour away. The chilly early-morning air prodded at her flesh, causing a thousand tiny raised bumps to appear there. If she really tried, she could get back before—

"_Liechtenstein!"_

Said girl winced at the deep, demanding voice behind her, echoing through the empty streets like thunder. She turned around slowly, trying to come up with a suitable story, despite the fact that she was horrid at lying. "B-big brother…what are you doing here? I was just on my way home, and…"

"I was waiting for you here, Liech." The cold voice with hints of underlying fury belonged to a man stepping out of the shadows…one with a forest-green uniform ripped in several places, a rifle strapped across his back, and a look that could kill in an instant.

She swallowed the lump of nervousness and humiliation that had lodged itself in her throat, choking her words. "W-what for? I wasn't-"

"I know what happened with those bastards!" Switzerland interjected. She knew that beneath his stern exterior, a fire of blind and maddened rage was blazing completely out of control. He pulled out the firearm he kept with him at all times. "And they'll all pay for it…they'll never take your pride away again!"

"_Wait, brother!" _She ran in front of him, attempting to block his way. "It's not their fault, really! I just…wanted to make some money so that I could help the both of us."

For a moment he managed to meet her desperate gaze, a faint but angry growl resonating in the back of his throat. Eventually he faltered, however, and let out a heavy sigh of surrender. Even the white beret perched on top of his blonde head seemed to slump and deflate in defeat.

"Come on," he muttered a bit grudgingly, taking her smaller hand in his large, calloused one and pulling her along behind him. "And swear to me that you'll never do that again! Understand?"

"I swear I won't," she promised, hanging her head in reproach. She noted that her brother's grip was more forceful than usual. Normally it was strong and protective, yet warm and perhaps even gentle. Clearly he was still mad, and still had the urge to shoot someone just to get his violence out.

"You won't have to get cash like that anymore, anyway," he continued in a somewhat more relaxed tone. "I've…found my way into some money."

She looked up at him in surprise and cautious hope. She couldn't even remember how long he'd been in a relentless hunt for work that up until now had been fruitless. It was Switzerland's frugality that had kept them alive so far…barely. She still felt an irrepressible guilt and uselessness whenever he refused to eat just so that she could.

"What kind of money?"

He stopped and turned around to tousle her short hair. "Never you mind. Just trust me."

"…I do."

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><p>France stood outside the closed door, listening in dismay to what was happening on the other side. A young girl with long, dark brown hair tied into pigtails with large scarlet ribbons, lay hacking and wheezing on her bed. Every cough that came out of her mouth was like a stab to the man's chest.<p>

She was dying. He had watched her grow more and more frail as the days and nights went on, futilely trying to preserve the spark in her that used to make her so wonderfully full of life.

And he had failed.

His Seychelles was dying…and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

He was about to turn the doorknob and go inside to soothe her when he was knocked backwards by a sudden blast, followed by intense heat and then finally blackness.

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><p><strong>Extra note: *cue shameless advertising* If you were to check out my friend Phoenixette101's awesome fic "Hetalia Kids", both of us would love you forever! 8DDD (Not that I don't already love you for reading this. :P)<strong>


	10. Chapter 9

**I really need to stop writing the author's notes when I'm dead tired...XD**

**Anyway...I have very mixed feelings about this chapter. _ First, this is a couple days late, so I should apologize for that...so much for sticking to a schedule. XP But other than that...I dunno. I just didn't have the inspirational drive, so I'm not sure how this will be. ;_; Then again, I suppose ten chapters is a bit of a milestone. And this is a long one. Well, you tell me what you think. XD**

**In other news: once again, I owe the creation of this chapter partially to a song, and more specifically my friend's AMV with that song. That would be "Brain Damage" by Pink Floyd. I wonder if instead of telling you all these songs I use chapter by chapter, I should just post the link to the playlist I made for this story on YouTube in my profile...XD But then, I'm paranoid about spoilers. Aaaaaand I'm rambling again. 8D**

**MY REVIEWERS, SUBSCRIBERS, AND FAVORITERS ARE ALL BI-WINNING! *shot for Charlie Sheen reference* THEY ARE: NONAMESWEREAVAILABLE, Yoly, Super Sister, Deemo, cheezeruleszolp, and angelsxdemons.**

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><p>He watched from the dark corners of the alley as the endless throngs of men and women streamed down the concrete sidewalk and thought about how much he hated crowded cities such as this one. They made him feel so incredibly cornered and trapped, as though the people surrounding him would unintentionally sweep him away in a human current, overwhelm him like a relentless swarm of insects, slowly smother him…<p>

Not like they would know or care if a country called Lithuania lay cold and lifeless in the cold and lifeless streets. No, they would keep walking by. They would probably be happy that he was no longer dirtying their air with his own breath.

In the distance, he could see the building that he and the rest of the gang would be infiltrating and robbing in the next few hours: the First International Government Vault of Western Europe. According to Estonia, it had been once called the Louvre, and somehow Lithuania preferred the latter. It seemed to do more justice for such a work of architecture, with its magnificently decorated façade and its two wings on either side that seemed to stretch out from the main part of the structure like arms, embracing all who went near it, drawing them in.

Had it not been for the security measures that made the place nearly impenetrable, he would've called it beautiful.

"Ah, there's our target now, everyone!" His boss's horrifically pleasant voice came from directly behind him, causing him to instinctively shudder a bit. Lithuania vaguely remembered a time in which it would have taken perhaps days to get from where they were in Eastern Europe to this city. But—thanks to the brilliance of TERRA's so highly acclaimed scientists-transportation had been much improved since then. So it had only taken a few hours of sneaking a ride on the Continental Monorail, averaging speeds at about 800 miles per hour, to reach this place.

"Big Brother…I'm not sure about attacking like this," Belarus suddenly piped up, her curtain of sleek platinum-blonde hair swishing as she turned to face Russia. "I'll protect you from any bastard that tries to get within a few feet of you, of course…but if you did get injured, it would hinder our wedding plans, you know."

Russia's eyes flickered nervously towards his clearly delusional younger sister briefly before he managed to compose himself again. "What do you mean you're not sure? We are the greatest gang of countries to ever walk these streets...the greatest in all of Europe! The guards of this vault are merely obstacles that are meant to be eliminated by all of us, to test us!" The leader's voice rose in volume and confidence with every word.

"Actually, I agree with her, Russia," Ukraine began timidly, an almost motherly concern gracing her features.

"We are going up against powerful opposition," Estonia added, and Latvia ventured a cautious nod of agreement.

Lithuania did nothing as he watched his boss's face change once again, morphing into that inhuman and all too familiar _creature,_ the onethat emerged when things didn't go just his way. That twisted, twisted, devilish countenance. Russia's true colors.

And still he smiled, smiled, smiled.

There was another being that dwelled inside the gang leader, Lithuania had decided long ago. It was some sort of powerful beast that lay coiled up like a parasite inside Russia, growing fat on the flesh and blood of its host's victims. And it always lashed out like a venomous serpent at times like this.

The monster had a name—it was called Madness.

"We _will _infiltrate the vault," he began cheerfully, through tightly clenched teeth, "and we _will _kill all who refuse to become one with me. Now, doesn't that sound lovely, everyone? _Doesn't it just?_"

His five subordinates turned their gazes downward in resignation.

Suddenly Lithuania felt something small and hard and deliberate collide with the back of his head, realizing a second later that it had been a pebble thrown at him.

He looked to make sure that Russia was distracted, then quietly snuck off in the direction from which the stone had come. He found himself in a small side street with a dead end and not a single trace of human life to speak of.

…That is, he thought so until he felt a forceful, insistent tug on the back of his shirt, yanking him backwards.

"Like, what the hell are you doing here?"

His eyes widened in recognition at the sound of the voice, the last one he expected to hear. He quickly turned around, and was sure enough met by a pair of narrowed forest eyes and the characteristic smirk that always seemed to accompany them.

"P-Poland!" Lithuania stuttered in surprise, only causing the other nation's amused grin to grow wider. "I could ask you the same thing…I was worried you might be dead by now!"

"Tch," the blonde country scoffed. "_Please, _Liet…you think I'd, like, go down that easily? I'm not a wuss like you."

Lithuania rolled his eyes in exasperation but did not make a retort, partly because it would do no good, and partly because he had almost missed the constant teasing he would receive from his friend, before Poland had been forced to go on the run.

"So…I guess if you're here, Liet, that means the jackass is too, huh?" he asked, the infuriating grin slowly sliding off his face.

Said man nodded reluctantly, knowing that the "jackass" being referred to was none other than his lunatic boss.

Lithuania remembered when he and Poland had first met. Back then, the latter had not had any way to get money, and so borrowed from the Iron Curtain, which at the time had just begun to earn its less-than-friendly reputation. Perhaps knowing that he would never in a million years be able to pay the amount back, Russia oh-so-kindly obliged and gave him the cash. Of course, inevitably, the situation only got worse, and none of the funds were returned. Now, the gang leader may have enjoyed lying to himself and fancied himself to be a lenient man, but in Lithuania's opinion he had just about as much patience as he had sanity. And so, once in the middle of the night, Poland vanished like mist in the night, and Lithuania had not seen nor heard a thing from him up to this very moment. Though Poland had never truly been part of the gang, Russia still saw the act as a form of treason.

And knowing his boss, Lithuania suspected that he had never quite forgotten the unpaid debt.

"And you…still work for him?" Poland's voice was growing gradually lower and bitterer by the moment.

Lithuania softly sighed, refusing to make eye contact. "Yes, I do," he said at last in an almost-whisper. It wasn't a subject he particularly enjoyed discussing.

"So why don't you just, like, leave? We could both get away from him if we tried!"

For a split second, the possibility of simply abandoning the gang was so deliciously tempting that his mind almost made it seem feasible to him. Then he remembered what he'd been told about what would happen if he ever left, about how he was at the greatest risk if he ever chose to do so…

"I…I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't?" Poland's voice rose indignantly, appearing utterly taken aback. "You don't—"

His gaze suddenly shifted as his attention turned to something behind Lithuania, some sort of noise. He listened for a few long moments before recognizing a very specific footfall. _"Shit!"_

Lithuania watched in confusion as the other nation raced off, realizing an instant too late exactly what he was running from. He looked down to see a human shadow overwhelming his own, hanging over him like a storm cloud. Looking at the dark shape, he could see that the person standing behind him was tall, large-boned, and wore a scarf that flapped in the wind like a macabre third arm.

"What are you doing here, little Lithuania?"

_Smile. Smile. Smile._

And he did just that, turning towards Russia and nervously forcing the corners of his mouth upwards. "I-I just…th-thought I'd scout out our surroundings a bit more, i-if you know what I mean, sir!"

To his immense relief, his boss seemed pleased with the lie, though whether or not he actually believed it was uncertain. "Ah, how clever of you! I won't teach you any lessons today, then, unlike yesterday when you made that little error of showing up late." He returned the grin and grabbed Lithuania's hand a little too tightly. "Now, come on, let's—"

Suddenly the larger man whipped around like a predator that had just caught the scent of fresh meat, his acute purple eyes scanning in every direction.

"…Is someone here with you, Lithuania?"

The gang member's heart thudded rapidly, feeling like a wild animal thrashing around inside his chest, rattling the bars of his ribcage. He prayed that Russia would continue being gullible, that Poland had already gone far enough away so that he wouldn't be pursued. "N-no…no one's anywhere around here. I-"

"You wouldn't lie to me," Russia interrupted, the words flowing slow and smooth and cold from his lips. His grip began to tighten. _"…Would you, little Lithuania?"_

He could only swallow and shake his head.

Russia paused for what seemed like eternity before turning once again to face Lithuania. That serene expression was back on his face, so content and so demented.

"No…of course you wouldn't."

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><p>Russia plunged his large pickaxe cleanly through the skull of yet another soldier that was guarding the bank, marveling as always at how utterly simple it was to kill a human. People were delicate, really, though they may not realize it—how easy it was to just stop one's heart from pumping, prevent one's lungs from taking in another breath.<p>

He found the death of any person to be beautifully sad. It was beautiful because of all the lovely blood that was spilled, the colorful shades of crimson that colored a dull world as they sprayed and flowed out freely from a slain body. But it was sad, because the person he killed would never be able to become one with him. They would never be his friend, and for that reason he felt truly sorry for them, because his friends were always happy. He made sure they were happy—Latvia and Estonia and Lithuania and his sisters, He was always telling them to _smile, smile, smile._

So, yes, it was beautifully sad, like…like…a sunflower. So mockingly gorgeous were those bright golden petals, and yet how they tortured him so, for no matter how hard he tried he could never grow them. He could never have that for himself.

_Ah, ah, I hear what they whisper about me…they think I'm crazy. _And that was why he had to put his friends in their places sometimes.

_I'm not crazy._

"Come on, then," he called merrily to the others. Lithuania, Estonia, and Ukraine all held guns, but they didn't seem too keen on using them. Belarus had just knifed another enemy and was staring at Russia as though seeking approval, but he turned away. "Let's keep going! Where to next, Estonia?"

The smartest of the five glanced at the makeshift map of the huge building that he had drawn up himself. "We'll have to keep going down this marble hall here until-"

"No…"

Everyone looked up in tense silence as Russia gazed thoughtfully down the corridor that supposedly led to the main vault. Estonia gulped and took a few cautious steps backwards, afraid of punishment.

After a moment, the leader said, "There aren't enough soldiers here…if we're really that close to the money, this hall should be crawling with them."

"I-I suppose that's a good point…" Estonia admitted.

"Did you consider the underground entrances, Estonia?"

"Underground?" Ukraine jumped in. "What underground?"

Russia's calm smile seemed to grow impossibly wider as he stomped on the marble floor, which echoed under his feet and showed that it was hollow. "There must be a basement here, and that's where they keep all the cash. Now the only question is…ah, here we go!" He stepped over to a large metal grate in the floor and pulled it away to reveal an opening in the ground just large enough for a single person to fit through.

"This must be how the crews get down there to do maintenance. Still, it just seems to easy…they must have known we would probably take this route to the vaults, and lain some sort of death-trap for us down there. Well, I'll be going, then. You all stay her…I'd like to do this alone. Wish me luck!"

Before anyone could react, Russia had already descended down the hole and found himself in an underground passageway. The ceiling was low enough so that he had to crouch awkwardly as he walked. The occasional light bulb provided some source of dim illumination, but he was still having trouble seeing more than a few feet in front of him. Other people might have had a panic attack being in such cramped, claustrophobic conditions. He didn't feel the slightest bit intimidated by the dark spaces, though. He had enough of them in his mind anyway.

_But I'm not crazy. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not._

Suddenly he heard a loud, echoing bang, and immediately flattened up as much as possible against the wall just in time to hear the _ping _of a bullet colliding with his iron axe.

From the darkness came a rumbling male's voice: "I recommend not moving. Not an inch."

Out from the shadows stepped the owner of that voice, a lone man with yellow locks and a white beret and an emerald glare.

Russia chuckled gaily. "I can tell already without asking that you're a country. Working for the government, eh? You must be quite desperate indeed. You don't feel like your betraying your kind?"

"I'm a hired mercenary, nothing more or less. In order to be a traitor, one has to have someone or something to betray," he muttered darkly as he slowly raised his rifle and aimed again. "I, on the other hand, am strictly neutral."


	11. Chapter 10

**_I'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSORRYI'MSO-_*shot***

**But seriously...I really do owe you guys a HUGE apology. Part of that is obviously due to the lateness of this chapter. I meant to do it before I left on vacation, but I never got around to it. Then right after I got back from Italy (YES, ITALY...it was AMAZINGGGGG! *O*), I started high school, which has naturally been a somewhat hectic. But I'd be lying if I said that the lateness of this chapter is due entirely to life-I'm also just a lazy ass and I've had no drive to write this. ;_; I'm really, really sorry...you guys deserve a lot better, especially those who have stuck with this thing since it started. I promise that I'll try to stay on a schedule!**

**But beyond that, I'm also apologizing because I think that I should've thought this chapter out more and done some more development-you'd think that for all the time it took me to post it, I'd do a better job. But instead I rushed a bit, because I really wanted to get this up. Well, at least this is a long one...**

**Anyway, I think any more "I'm sorry"s would be useless...but I'll say it again anyway. I'M SORRY~! ;_;**

**EPIC PEOPLE WHO DESERVE MILLIONS UPON BILLIONS OF COOKIES: J. E. McCormickGal, cheezeruleszolp, Kevi-bear, Yoly, NONAMESWEREAVAILABLE, dewdrop721, Iceestar, Hetalia. Power, LunarMiracle, angelsxdemons, and foREVerhauntingme.**

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><p>"<em>So have you finally learned what happens when you screw up like this, country?"<em>

_The nation's eyelids, which up until that point had been squeezed tightly shut, slowly cracked open just enough to get a view of the monster that stood towering above him, so arrogant and omnipotent and proud. The creature was dressed all in black, so that he seemed to almost disappear into the shadows that surrounded him. It had a human shape and did an excellent job of disguising itself as merely a man, but the subordinate knew better. This beast's soul was too corrupted to be a just a normal person; the gleam in those eyes, most of the time concealed behind the shady tint of sunglasses, was too devilish._

_This animal had a name, but to his many inferiors such a trivial matter was irrelevant. They had no use for it. To them, he was known only as Boss…as in, the boss of the local Mafia, that which he was the head of._

_Suddenly, Romano suddenly felt something hard and blunt collide with his bottom jaw, throwing him violently backwards. It took him a moment to realize that the object had been the Boss's boot._

"_I asked you a question, you fucking little moron!"_

"_Y…yes," Romano finally managed to cough out. He tried willing his body to stop trembling, to little avail. "D-dammit…stop. P-please stop…" He realized how pathetic and humiliatingly stupid he must have looked and sounded at that point, but he had more important things to worry about than his pride. Survival, for instance. The numerous injuries he'd just been dealt, for instance._

_The Boss chuckled and smirked, removing from his mouth the still smoldering cigarette that had been clamped tightly between his white teeth. Smoke swirled around his head like a deformed, pale gray halo as he brought the glowing orange ember to his victim's body and slowly, slowly, excruciatingly pressed it into his soft flesh. Romano hissed as the miniature fire began to burrow its way into him, almost trying to eat away at him with tiny teeth of flame._

_When at last the makeshift torture device had been removed, a circular, ash-colored burn on his exposed flesh. He'd lost count, but he knew that this ugly mark was one of probably dozens that he'd received that night._

"_Glad we understand each other…just don't think about botching a job like that again, idiot. And count yourself lucky that I chose not to shoot you on the spot!"_

Lucky_, he said. He told Romano he was _lucky_ that more damage wasn't done to him. He was lucky for being alive._

_Yes. Because he just felt so fucking fortunate right now._

That had been less than an hour ago, though it felt so much longer. Romano now lay sprawled out on the unfeeling concrete, leaning back against a wall as air entered and exited his lungs in short, quavering gasps. The blazing, throbbing wound in his arm caused his vision to swim dizzyingly, nauseating him. Even in the dark, he could see the scarlet trail that led from where he'd been to where he now was. It told of how he'd staggered, weak and unsteady due to exhaustion and blood-loss, from the decrepit old warehouse to this silent corner on this silent night and collapsed there. It painted the sidewalk in a wide crimson grin, spread out before him like some gruesome red carpet. A path leading to nowhere…not unlike his life.

_Inhale. Exhale. _He found it impossible to keep the rhythm of his breathing steady as the agony in his arm only seemed to increase, the natural painkillers that had been released into his body quickly losing their potency.

And the moon, the moon was full and bright and engorged, and it stared down at him like a massive eyeball, relentless and unblinking. It never ceased to make him paranoid, that sense that someone was watching him. He wanted to snuff out the light of that huge sky-sphere like the flame of a candle. He could hardly _stand _it.

He suddenly wondered, as he did every night, how his brother was doing. After all, Italy had been the reason for his joining the Mafia in the first place—Romano had gotten wrapped up in the society, seeking a way into their extensive wealth, but as of yet none of it had been shared with him. But now he couldn't leave them: he was in far too deep for that. Abandonment would mean death. He had been trying to support himself and his younger sibling, but he had failed. It seemed that all he could ever manage to succeed in was disappointing people.

_I bet he's still waiting for me right where I told him, that trusting little moron. I bet he still thinks I'll come back any minute with my arms full of loot. He probably still doesn't realize that his brother is a goddamn coward that deserves to rot in Hell for betraying him. He doesn't deserve me…he needs someone better, who can actually help him. God dammit…why the fuck can't I do anything right by Feli?_

But he couldn't brood over it right now, at least not there in the darkened corner and not in the condition that he was in. They had broken his arm, he knew—the bone had probably been shattered into useless shards. God forbid that they should get bored and come back to find him. As soon as his stubbornness and determination overrode the thought of putting himself in even more physical torment, with his entire body screaming in protest, he somehow managed to lift himself up and began staggering away to find a place of relative safety.

Then again, he should've been used to all this by now. He knew the punishment for making a mistake, for disappointing his leader. He should've been used to being treated like a filthy, flea-ridden cur. With the exception of Italy, everyone in this world hated him…which was fine, since he hated them as well.

Hate. Hate was his weapon, his shield, his sanctuary. It was the prison that he voluntarily sealed himself in, simply so that he could keep everything else out. It was better that way. It was better, he told himself, if he only felt that one emotion and nothing else. He felt safer with that mentality: resent and be resented, loathe and be loathed, despise and be despised. That's what the world had taught him.

And anyway, if he didn't embrace hate, he would surely be swallowed up by fear.

I was just a few moments after he managed to drag himself into the security of an old building that he heard a faint tapping outside that he recognized as footsteps—two sets of them.

_Shit…what else are you bastards going to throw at me?_

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><p>"Why do we have to keep traveling so late at night, Germany?"<p>

Said man rolled his eyes at Italy, who yawned widely and continued trudging along next to him. He didn't know that it was possible for one man to whine so much.

"I told you, it's safer this way. There aren't as many soldiers at this time."

Italy moaned and looked up at his larger companion, his normally bright smile replaced by weariness. Perhaps he had never been awake for this many hours in a row—judging by his frequent napping patterns, it wouldn't be entirely surprising. "But couldn't we just take the Monorail?"

Germany gave a long, frustrated sigh at Italy's lack of understanding or concern as far as the danger they were all in. The Axis gang, as they now called themselves, had collectively decided to try slowly migrating into northern Europe, though what they sought to gain from such a voyage they didn't really know. In truth, it didn't really matter which direction they went or where their destination would be, so as long as they managed to avoid TERRA and throw the soldiers off their trail.

"Too risky," He stated immediately and bluntly. "We could be seen too easily, even if we tried to sneak aboard."

He suddenly looked over and saw the exhaustion on the other man's face and suddenly realized how tired he himself was becoming. They had been on their feet nearly all day, and while Germany prided himself on his stamina, even he was beginning to slow down.

"Don't worry…Japan said that he's been to this area before. He thinks he knows a place where we can stay for the night. But as long as we're out in the open like this, we have to stay alert."

Italy once again glanced his way, this time fixing him with a pleading look akin to the one a puppy gave when it begged for food. "But can't we be alert…while we take a little rest."

Germany hesitated for a moment. Then, despite the fact that Italy's request made little to no sense, he reluctantly nodded. "Fine…we'll find a place to wait for Japan to come back and get us." Italy beamed up at him in return, already looking more revived and cheerful.

Before Germany could wonder why he was being so tolerant tonight, he stopped suddenly in his tracks, Italy quickly following his example.

"G-Germany? Is something wrong?" Nervousness was rapidly creeping back into the country's voice, threatening to spiral into full-on panic.

Germany didn't respond, for he himself didn't quite know how to answer. What he saw might have only been an illusion that had appeared out of the corner of his eye, something spawned from a mixture of the lack of available life and his own imagination.

But then, maybe it wasn't.

Slowly, he turned his head to the building on his right, and yes, there it was: through the window, he saw that it was more than merely a fleeting image. Inside he could make out the silhouette of a human, it features masked by the night. What he could see was that this person was not moving, slumped forward, supported only by the wall against which the body was propped.

He fully suspected that whoever was in there was already dead.

The blonde turned to see a now quite frightened Italy pointing a quivering finger at the ground. Germany followed it and saw the dark maroon color staining the concrete beneath them. It was unmistakably dried blood, and plenty of it.

He pulled out his gun and began cautiously searching for an entrance into the place where the figure sat inside. "Wait here," he commanded Italy, who had no intention of disobeying.

The doorway was actually located a little ways down the block. The structure was quite large and had quite possibly once been a government-operated building that had become useless after TERRA had come to power. As he stepped inside, for a moment there was an eerie, pervading silence before a sudden shout shattered it.

"_Hey, you fucking bastard! What the hell do you think you're doing in here? Get the fuck out!"_

Germany spun around, his firearm held out in front of him, and suddenly it occurred to him that he was quickly running low on bullets…not that he was about to let anyone know that. "Who are you? Come out here, now!"

The owner of the voice did just that, and when he did, Germany nearly lost his grip on his weapon. This person was nearly an exact copy of Italy, with two very clear differences. The first was that rather than an idiotic smile, this nation wore an ill-tempered scowl that seemed to be permanently carved into his face. The second was that he was injured, and badly injured at that, with only a poorly fashioned tourniquet to stop the worst of the bleeding.

"You look horrible…do you need—"

"I don't need anything from you, fucker! Are you fucking _deaf? _I said _out! Leave me alone!"_

"Hang on a minute…" He lowered his gun a bit as he spoke. If this man was as incompetent as his look-alike, he didn't have much to worry about. "Do you know someone called Italy?"

"Italy…" For a brief moment, the stranger's expression softened and his hazel eyes widened—perhaps in recognition, perhaps in surprise, perhaps in hope. It wasn't long, though, before the sides of his mouth once again twisted downwards into an agitated frown. "Alright, what'd you do to my brother, jackass?"

Germany furrowed his brow, starting to become irritated by this man's rudeness. "Brother…what are you going on about?"

"_Don't play dumb! _By now you must know as well as I do that my brother is too stupid to know an asshole when he sees one, but I'm not! Now what the fuck did you do with him?"

"Look, I didn't-"

He didn't have time to finish his thought before they heard a series of gunshots, followed by a shriek that they both instantly recognized.

"_ITALY!"_

In the few minutes it had taken them to race out the door and down the block, to the source of the scream, the scene before them had turned into something that couldn't have been more unexpected.

They found themselves staring entirely dumbfounded at the forms of three TERRA soldiers, each one of them lying motionless on the ground where they had been struck down just moments before. The first, looking by far the worst off of the trio, lay with hideous purple-blue bruises blooming on almost every visible part of his body. His limbs were mangled, snapped and sticking out at all angles—he looked like some kind of deformed, life-size rag doll, and was just as lifeless. The other two were also unresponsive, and their life essence was slowly draining from them and puddling all around them, though from where it was impossible to tell, since their uniforms matched the color of the spilled blood.

And in the middle of it all, holding a knife no doubt taken from one of the fallen, was the second person Germany had seen that night that looked almost exactly like Italy…but this could not possibly be the frivolous country he knew. In fact—judging by the murderous look in this person's eye, the tensing of every single muscle fiber in an attack stance, the viciously fierce and determined aura that seemed to surround his entire being—he had to wonder if whoever stood before him was entirely human.

In many ways, he seemed more like an animal…a predator.

But no, he saw now—it was indeed Italy, only he had been possessed by something, something that had given him both the ability and the drive to beat one soldier senseless and use his first victim's weapon to slaughter the other two.

"I-I knew you did something to him…" Italy's brother said in a whisper, though his voice was this time filled not with anger but with awe.

Germany ventured a step forward, and instantly regretted it.

All at once, Italy whirled around and fixed him with the most burning, raging stare he'd ever received. _"Don't come closer!" _Again, although the country's mouth moved with the words, it could not possibly be his. It had deepened and taken on a commanding, almost threatening quality that made even Germany halt in surprise.

"There are more of them nearby…I can tell," the New Italy hissed, a hint of paranoia in his tone.

Romano acted as though he had not heard the warning, walking toward his twin wide-eyed and shocked, almost as if in a daze—almost as if he needed to affirm that he truly was face-to-face with his sibling, after all this time of their being apart. "F-Feli…?"

Italy saw it out of the corner of his eye just as it was happening—just as it was too late to stop it. One of the dying soldiers, not willing to let himself perish without a last act of defiance against his killer, raised his pistol; with a violently trembling finger, he pulled on the trigger…

"_Romano-"_

One bang.

One bullet.

Two identical faces horribly contorted with pain and horror.

Italy watched entirely powerless as his brother stood in front of him for a moment, unmoving, unbreathing. The gunshot wound in his chest painted his shirt a vivid and grisly red. Then, as though his legs had suddenly turned to flimsy cardboard, he crumpled in a defeated heap to the ground.

There was a total silence for a moment, which engulfed the whole area like a smothering black blanket. Then, with the abruptness of a hammer shattering a thin sheet of glass, a single anguished cry broke it and rang out through the night.

"_ROMANO!"_

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><p><strong>Yeah...my information on the Mafia is pretty basic. If I messed up anything, my bad. ^^'<strong>


	12. Chapter 11

**I...I just...I'm...*shoots self***

**No amount of "I'm sorry"s can make up for my rampant lazy-ass-ness, or for the lateness of this last update. T_T I really do feel terrible about it...life's been kind of crazy lately, so I just can't promise regular updates anymore. But I DO swear that they will NOT be as late as this one was! I'm sure you find something five weeks overdue just as unacceptable as I do. **

**Anyway...I hope this chapter at least somewhat makes up for it. I kind of like this one, I guess...though I actually cut it short just because I REALLY wanted to finally get it posted (it should be okay, though, since I needed something else for the next chappie...so it should all even out XP). **

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**Please enjoy! :P**

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><p><em>Blackness.<em>

_For the longest moments of his life, there was only a total, engulfing blackness._

_And how nice it was, being in this private cocoon spun of inky darkness, blocking him off from the rest of the world. How lovely it felt to have disappeared into this strange and blissful night. He could see nothing, feel nothing, and so could only guess idly at where he could possibly be. Perhaps he was enclosed in some lightless, soundless metal prison. Perhaps he was buried alive, trapped beneath many feet of earth. He found that he could not move at all—in fact, was he even attached to his body anymore? He felt almost like a spirit, weightless and floating in a universe devoid of stars and planets._

_Most likely, he was dead._

_Well…how very nice._

_But, ah…what was this now? Something foreign was invading his opaque peace. The intruder was known as sound, but it was somehow strange to him now. He felt like an infant that had just emerged from its mother's womb and was experiencing the phenomenon known as noise for the first time. It was harsh and unpleasant and threatened to wake him up, to return him to his senses._

_No…no…he wanted to stay like this. He did not want to return to the world outside, whatever it was. _

_He wanted to stay there, in the safety of the dark._

France's eyelids at last snapped open, once again fully conscious, and was greeted immediately by an impenetrable wall of flame directly in front of him.

It took several seconds for his panicked, adrenaline-flooded mind to comprehend what was happening. Once he did, the realization slammed into him with all the force of a tidal wave sweeping away an unprotected beach. The explosion, probably from a grenade, throwing him violently back-his skull had collided with the wall behind him and abruptly knocked him out, sending him into the dark inner world from which he had just emerged. It was nothing less than a miracle that he had survived.

…Then again, judging by the fire that surrounded him on all sides—consuming all in its path and seeming to dance a joyful, maniacal dance as it flickered—perhaps it was a more of a curse. Maybe instead of being dealt a quick and decisive death by bombing, he was destined to be torn apart by the greedy, orange-red tongues of the blaze. Maybe the building would collapse and he would be crushed in the rubble. Maybe he and Seychelles and the other ladies there would all just—

_Seychelles…_

Like being jolted suddenly awake after a fitful sleep, France sprang to his feet before he even realized he was still capable of movement. He only vaguely wondered where the blood that lay around him had come from. All his energy was focused on making his way as quickly as possible through the burned and crackling corridors, to reach the sickly little girl that was somewhere in the half-destroyed building. Color and sound blurred, mixing together until he could scarcely distinguish what was in front of him. The fumes caused him to become disoriented as he inhaled them—they singed his lungs, stung his eyes, contaminated and clouded his thoughts.

_She must still be alive. She's smart enough to have gotten out of her room…she must be somewhere in here. Maybe—_

Suddenly he felt hands, many hands, grabbing him roughly by his shirt collar and dragging him through the halls. He was too much in shock to resist, too lightheaded and confused due to the toxins he had breathed in, and so allowed himself to be taken until he found himself outside in the glorious, smoke-free air.

When he turned and saw who his "rescuers" truly were, he immediately wished he had chosen to remain inside the burning death-trap. At least that way, his doom would have been a bit less drawn-out.

He looked up and saw faces—three cold, callous, unfeeling faces looking down at him, each with an expression of heartlessness and mild loathing glaring back at him. Their words were just as cruel.

"He wants this country to be taken alive, right?"

"Yes. Get the tranquilizer…we don't want him to give us too much trouble."

Those faces, those voices belonged to the three soldiers of TERRA who had him pinned firmly to the rain-soaked ground.

_Taken alive…taken alive…taken alive…_ The words kept reverberating around inside France's skull, a silent echo. He knew that it only meant he wouldn't die immediately. He would be taken somewhere so that some officials of the government could study him and watch him as he perished—they would have a lovely show.

Upon instinct he tried to struggle, writhing beneath their grasps, earning him only a quick and brutal fist just below his eye; the resulting salty taste in his mouth told him that he had cut the inside of his cheek open on his teeth.

He looked up once more at those hateful faces, these men who were hell-bent on seeing his demise, and it occurred to him that they would go home with smiles on their faces. They would return home to families and friends that would smile right back and embrace them, having eagerly awaited their return. They would have a pleasant meal that night, believing that on that day they had nobly and loyally served their government. They would not think of their actions as murder. They would not believe that they had done anything wrong.

He saw another man in the red military uniform step forward with a devilishly gleaming silver dart-gun, and the last thing he felt was the barrel being pressed against his chest. After that, a sense of numbness seemed to overcome him, most likely due to the ever-rising tide of terror swelling within him. He could almost hear the sound—faint, very faint—of the trigger being pulled…

A series of shots rang out.

None of them hit him.

Before he realized he had squeezed them tightly shut, his eyes snapped open and he saw that his would-be killers, all four of them, now lay deceased on the concrete beside him. Their pupils were wide and staring and glassy, their ruthless countenances now replaced by ones that were blank and lifeless.

The dead troops had been replaced by two very different men. One was the foolish boy from earlier, the one with the glasses and the wild blonde curl and the perpetual stupid smile. The other…

"Go on then, America…'save' him." England's voice was disgustingly upbeat, reassuring, almost as though he were talking to a young child; his eyes were full of a certain eagerness, a certain glint that even perhaps suggested a lust for the imminent kill.

A wide smile, one that was full of happiness and naïveté, appeared on America's face as he pulled out his pistol.

It immediately dawned on France that he had escaped TERRA only to be killed by his enemy and his pet idiot. He couldn't decide which was worse.

America aimed, put his finger on the trigger…and tossed the weapon aside.

England's smugness was washed from his features in an instant, and he took on an expression that looked as incredulous as France felt. "Wh-what are you doing, America? You want to _save _people, right?"

America laughed a hearty laugh as he pulled France up, apparently oblivious to his companion's growing shock and aggravation. He turned to both of his fellow nations, and his grin grew. "I'm still gonna save people…but you gave me an idea, England! I want to get a whole bunch of friends to help me, and be my backup to save the world! I want…" He seemed to think for a moment, searching for the right word before his face lit up as though he'd just made a fantastic discovery. "I want _allies!"_

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><p><em>Ring around the rosy…<em>

He smiled.

He stood there, his large form only partially visible in the harsh, eerie, yellowish light produced by the single, glowering bulb overhead. In the sparse illumination, his eyes twinkled merrily with the delight of knowing that bloodshed, delicious bloodshed, was inevitable.

_A pocket full of posies…_

He smiled.

In the shadows—in the constricting, engulfing darkness that seemed ready at any time to enclose and swallow them alive—he calmly faced his opponent. He could almost feel the steely determination radiating from this other country, this man who seemed to be concentrating every fiber of every muscle into the attack. _He must be experienced, _Russia thought. _All the more reason to add him to my collection of victims!_

He smiled. And he chuckled. He chuckled a lovely little chuckle, one laced with blissful lunacy.

_Ashes, ashes…_

"Say…what comes after that line?"

His competitor gave him a suspicious sideways glance, green eyes as hard and sharp as the emerald gem their color mimicked. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Russia went on as though he had not heard, continuing in a mockingly sweet voice that dripped with mockingly feigned innocence, almost talking to himself more than to his enemy. "Neutral, eh? So you're _not _loyal to TERRA? In that case…what's that around your neck there, hmm?"

For a moment, the murderous spark in Switzerland's gaze grew, and the fight could have very well begun with that single naïve question.

_No, _he decided—he would kill this fool within minutes anyway, the conflict a quick one. It wouldn't matter if he were told. He would be entombed in this secret corridor far beneath the earth, underneath this mighty structure that stood as just one more testament to the government's towering strength. His body would dissolve into a stinking, festering, wretched pile of decaying tissue until only the white, white bones remained, a skeleton forever preserved in the undisturbed repose of death. That flickering, somehow unearthly light above their heads would be his sole mourner.

So Switzerland returned his adversary's grin with one of his own, an upwards curling of his lips that was born of only bitterness. His hand went up to the tracking collar that he had been forced to accept as a requirement if he wanted to become a guard for TERRA. None of the other soldiers bore it—it was because they didn't trust him, because they wanted to dehumanize him, because he was a country. It felt like some sort of noose that had yet to be fully tightened, its smooth metal was cool against his throat. "This? This is what they use to keep me in line, of course. They wouldn't want their dog running off, would they? No, I'm not loyal to TERRA…because loyalty and ownership are two different things."

This time Russia laughed out loud. "Is that so? So you choose to submit to the mighty? You must think quite highly of TERRA and what they've done to types like you and me, or you wouldn't have—"

"Oh, TERRA has gone to _shit!"_ He hadn't expected the words to leap from his mouth with such fury, but he couldn't help himself. "They weren't always like this, you know…they've even admitted that the goals of the original organization didn't involve getting rid of countries. Now look what they're doing—do you realize that the bastards were actually trying to lure you down here to fight me? And you fell for it. So now they're hoping that we'll end up slaughtering each other. They want to kill two birds with one stone. _Don't you get that?"_

Russia only cocked his head slightly to one side, much like a curious child, a curious and lethal child. "You know that they're probably listening in on you, right?"

Switzerland snickered humorlessly. "I _know _that they are."

Russia stared at him for a moment longer before speaking. "Say…what is that next line anyway? I can't seem to remember it." He lifted his weapon before at last saying gleefully, "Oh, that's right! '_They all fall down!"_

He sprang at the other nation.

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><p>Somewhere far away from the battle, one of TERRA's most important officials—the strategist who had conceived the plot of how to get these two countries, Switzerland and Russia, to meet and fight—sat before a television. The screen showed to him a live feed from the cameras that he had placed there, revealing the two nations striking and dodging and doing everything in their power to snuff out each other's lives.<p>

He hoped for a good show.


	13. Chapter 12

**HAPPY BELATED HALLOWEEN, EVERYONE~! 8D (I cosplayed as Austria in his devil-doctor costume...just saying. ;D)**

**So...it's late, but at least not as late as last time, right? ^^' Ugh...God, I really hope it's not shitty or too hastily written. Sometimes I feel like my skill's actually decreasing. T_T **CHAPTERS-Y U NO EVER TURN OUT THE WAY I WANT? Anyway, y**ou guys really deserve so much better, especially since so many of you left FRIGGIN WONDERFUL reviews for the last update and it makes me want to hug you all!**

**Also, I think I told some of you in replies to reviews that I'm going to base some events on this story off actual historical occurences. Yeah...haven't been doing that much lately, have I? XP But I meant what I said, and I shall start doing that more beginning with the next chapter! **

**Um...not really much else to say other than it's 3 in the morning where I am. YAY FOR INSOMNIA!**

**MY REVIEWERS, SUBSCRIBERS, AND FAVORITERS! *skips around and showers said people with cookies, vodka, free clones of Italy to have as your own, etc.* THEY ARE: hetalia-deathnote-kuroshitsuji, Erika Strider, Miyukichan23, J. E. McCormickGal, Hetalia. Power, angelsxdemons, Yoly, oceanlover4evr, NONAMESWEREAVAILABLE, foREVerhauntingme, Super Sister, cheezeruleszolp, and Fuyumi. Kuruhai. **

**GAH. I. LUFF. YOU. ALL. SO. MUCH. ^3^**

**ENJOY!**

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><p>The blonde country let out a choked gasp as he was flung violently back against the wall like a leaf caught in the winds of a tempest. The "storm" that raged around him, though, was unlike any that nature could produce…for the gathering clouds had come to clash not in the heavens but in this despicable underground passageway, and the sound of thunder had been replaced by that of gunshots and clanging steel.<p>

And the rain—the rain was the sweat that formed a damp and salty film on his brow, and the blood that dripped slowly from the multiple cuts that now adorned his body, the crimson droplets like shimmering liquid rubies.

At least an hour, Switzerland calculated. That was at least how long he had been fighting, at least how long it had been storming. He had only expected to have had to deal with his opponent—this beast, this one called Russia—for a relatively brief time. After all, the man was naïve, childish, prone to react quickly and on a whim without allowing his mind to cooperate with his body.

That is, at least, what Switzerland's first impression had been. But no, he had made the most foolish and amateur mistake of all: underestimating the enemy.

Almost as soon as the brawl had begun, he had realized the magnitude of his fatal error. Despite the man's size, he proved to be panther-like, dodging and jumping and striking at all the right moments with an almost elegant sort of precision and aggression. The bottom of his beige coat flapped out like wings all around him, and he seemed to possess an almost superhuman ability to evade bullets—they simply whizzed past him, intent on their course and never once penetrating their intended target. Like cornering a hunted animal, he had managed to back Switzerland into a wider part of the corridor, where he could swing around his pickaxe with greater ease.

And he continued to smile. Though his body moved with the swiftness and agility of some kind of predator, his face never changed or faltered in the least. There was only that seemingly permanent grin etched onto his face—that damnable, stupid, thoughtlessly serene expression that seemed to come from a whole other world, one entirely apart from this reality constructed of shadows and violence. It had come to rest like a perching bird upon Russia's features, and it didn't seem to have any intention of taking flight any time soon. It bothered Switzerland to no end, not being able to decipher his adversary's thoughts or predict his next move in any way. The aura surrounding the mysterious country was like the densest of fogs: the moment one steps into it, they immediately become lost and disoriented by the engulfing blanket of cloud. They know that there must be things around them, but their surroundings are hidden from view by the misty veil.

There was undoubtedly something more to this Russia, but it was impossible to tell what. And that made him much, much more dangerous.

Suddenly, it was as though a wave had come over him and dragged him down into the depths of the churning ocean. He could not hear, could scarcely think. Something had invaded his brain and instantly spread entirely throughout his whole self like a wildfire through a drought-stricken forest, numbing his senses.

That something was pain—sheer, white-hot, agonizing pain.

It had all happened before he could react: while he was aiming his rifle, Russia had kicked him squarely in the stomach, sending him slamming against the ground. For the briefest of moments, he could see his rival's weapon poised above his chest, glinting evilly like the fang of some massive serpent.

Then it came down, down, down to meet him.

He had moved just enough so that the spike dug into his shoulder rather than his vital organs. He felt every fiber being shredded, every muscle rent like fragile strips of paper, flesh ripped through as though it were little more than air. Bone shattered and splintered like delicate crystal, the shards embedding themselves into the bloody mess of mutilated tissue.

And oh God, the pain…it all but blinded him, his vision swimming and spinning before his eyes. Not that he really wanted to see the horror that was his nearly severed limb.

Oh God, oh God, the _pain…_

He would have yelled out had Russia not planted his knee squarely on top of his rib cage, compressing his lungs and cutting off his air. For a moment the man looked down with a sort of mild intrigue, like someone who had spotted a quaint antique in a store window and was contemplating buying it. That was all this lunatic saw him as—something to be possessed.

Then Russia—still happy, of course, still very happy—took off his scarf, tied it into a noose and put this makeshift "leash" around his fellow nation's neck. The thing wrapped around him like the coils of a huge snake preparing to deliver its prey a slow death by suffocation. Then, in a voice full of gentleness and care and all the benevolence in the world, he said the most disgusting and repulsive words Switzerland had ever heard.

"What a lovely new pet you'll make!"

His very skin crawled at the indignation of that single abhorrent sentence, as though a horde of miniscule insects living just beneath the surface of his body had moved in unison. His jaw clenched until it ached. And it was at that point that he realized he utterly despised this man—despised him and his unreadable thoughts and his guileless façade and his _fucking, fucking smile. _He was no longer just a necessary kill that had to be made in order to put money in his pocket. No, this Russia had managed to unlock the cage of that furious and primal instinct called hate, and now it thrashed around inside him with its sharp and knifelike wanted to tear that pleasant countenance from his lips, to wipe it away just as water thrown on an unfinished painting distorted the shapes and colors until they blended together into a soup of What-Once-Was.

He might have done just that had it not been for two things that prevented him. The first was that he was becoming increasingly lightheaded and dazed due to the lack of oxygen reaching his constricted chest. The second was that he got a look at Russia's eyes.

Yes…_those eyes_.

Looking at them up close now, Switzerland suddenly saw that he had picked a fight with something that could not have in any way been entirely human. Something had clearly warped this individual's soul, mutated and twisted and distorted it into something unrecognizable. He could see it in those flashing lavender orbs, those ebony pupils that seemed to dilate and open themselves up into gaping black maws that sought to consume all that came near them.

_Those eyes_…they seemed to pull him in as well as repel him. Just as much as they revolted him, at the same time it seemed that an invisible finger beckoned him to them, drawing him in. And what was that odd glitter in those purple irises? What seemed to light them up so, like a young boy wandering in dreamlike awe through the halls of a candy shop?

Oh…he recognized it now. He knew why Russia could not keep a grin off his face. And if he were to be entirely honest with himself—if he were to bypass his pride delve into the deepest pits of his mind—he would have said that he was utterly and completely terrified by the realization.

The light in _those eyes_ was that of insanity.

Insanity.

Pure insanity.

"So…you'll become one with me, yes?"

_Become one…become one…the bastard wants me to join him._

"…Y…yes…" The word was pushed up reluctantly, bitterly from his throat, in a dry and labored breath.

Russia raised his eyebrows as though in slight surprise. That brief lapse in concentration was just enough…

"…_When Hell freezes over!"_

Switzerland jabbed his pistol into his opponent's gut and pulled the trigger.

The copper pellet had scarcely penetrated when the crimson spray hit him in the face.

At once Russia let out a cry of anger stumbled back, allowing Switzerland to suck in precious, precious air. _Those eyes _widened in shock, their purple hue expanding outwards and threatening to swallow up the black center as the sea does so to helpless fishing boats. For a moment, the smile was gone. His face looked so different and alien, almost naked without its mask to cover it, barren and fallow as an unseeded field.

Yes, for just a moment, the smile was gone.

This his lips twitched slightly, just slightly upwards. Then—another twitch, again only fleeting, but clearly there. Gradually, gradually, the corners of his mouth lifted up into another grin…but this one was different. Instead of a look of placidity, this was more of a ravenous snarl that a true smile. The deranged glimmer was back in _those eyes, _except this time it was not merely a twinkle, but had flared into a massive flame. There was no longer any lightheartedness anywhere about him—only hunger and lust for murder.

Slowly, Russia looked down at his wound. Slowly, he reached in and removed some of the crimson liquid spurting from it—his own life force, his own blood. Slowly, he spread the stuff across his white, white teeth, the vile stuff dribbling down his chin.

Madness, madness.

Before a nauseated Switzerland could aim another shot, Russia suddenly charged and threw the former nation against the wall.

He swung.

Then, with his axe held poised in midair, he stopped. He was focused on something now, something other than the spilling of Switzerland's guts. He appeared, for a moment, to be staring at the mercenary's neck. Without warning, he began to laugh a terrible and grating laugh, one that echoed off the narrow hallways and assaulted his eardrums.

Then, abruptly, he turned and ran.

With a growl of fury lodged in his chest, Switzerland fumbled on the ground for his gun before retrieving it and firing multiple times, watching the bullets disappear as they flew down the hallway, seeming to dissolve as they entered the black shadows. But none had the desired effect, and he could hear the hurried footsteps of the demented man running off down the corridor and to freedom until at last they faded away into nothing.

He sat in silence for a few moments, then sighed. The bastard had gotten away…what would the government do now? Beat him? Certainly he would be receiving no form of payment for his failed efforts.

He stood, wincing at his arm but still not daring to lay eyes on the gruesome sight. He made his way to the hidden door in the wall, the one through which he had entered, the one through which he had been told to come back from once he had killed the intruder.

It remained stubbornly locked.

His brow furrowed as he tried the handle again several times, to no avail. Was this really where he had come from? A sense of foreboding seemed to creep over him and send a tingle throughout his whole self. His hand went once more up to his collar.

He had been staring at Switzerland's neck…

The country looked down at the metal ring encircling his throat and saw a tiny screen that had been blank before displaying red digital numbers—1:14. Now 1:13. 1:12. The characters continued ever downward in their relentless march toward zero. And…yes, if he listened hard, he could make out for the first time a faint beeping emanating from the object. He recognized a similar sound from time he had spent around time-bombs…

_Bombs…_

Suddenly, it became quite clear what TERRA intended to do with him since Russia hadn't finished him off.

No…no, there had to be some escape. There was no way he'd have enough time to escape the way Russia had, but there must have been another way. He knew there must have been. He _knew _it! He furiously yanked on the handle of the door once more, kicked at it in the hope that it would fall. He yanked at the collar viciously, even though in truth he knew strength like his would never be anywhere near sufficient to dislodge it. In his fury and anger, he began madly assaulting the walls, as though they personally had planted the explosive on him.

When he glanced again in panic at the clock, he found that he had thirty seconds left before his body parts were ripped apart in the imminent blast.

Thirty tiny, tiny seconds.

Immediately he froze, as though winter itself had settled inside his bones and caused him to shake all over, this man who had once been so powerful and sure of himself. Defeated, entirely defeated, he slumped to the floor like the pile of dust he would soon become. He wallowed in pity, yes, but not for himself. It had stopped being about him ages and ages ago. It was only _her. _Her innocent face flashed before his eyes like a phantom, a vision. His Liechtenstein, quiet but defiant, a flower blooming in a wasteland. His little sister. What would happen to her? What would she do when she found out he was dead? Surely she wouldn't give up, would she? No, she had to go on living for him…but what would she resort to in order to do so?

Twenty seconds.

That bulb in the ceiling—as it sputtered out its last weak and flickering light, even as it was about to go out, even it seemed to mock him. He could almost hear it's rasping voice as it snickered cruelly: _Haha! Seems I won't be the only one who'll die down here! Hahaha!"_

Ten seconds.

His turned his head up toward the starry sky that existed above ground, above this place which would become his coffin. _Liechtenstein…_

Five.  
><em>I hope you find someone or something that gives light to your world…<em>

Four.

Three.

_That's what you did for me._

Two.

One…

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><p>Somewhere, a man with a bloodstained grin ran from the building just before it was blown to Kingdom Come.<p>

Somewhere, a little girl waited in vain for her older brother to come back.

And somewhere, somewhere, that brilliant strategist of TERRA found himself satisfied with the "experiment" he had conducted with these two countries, Russia and Switzerland. He hoped to try some more soon.


	14. Chapter 13

**OKAY...many things need to be said.**

**1) First off, I hope everyone had a FANTASTIC Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Winter Break/whatever! :P Mine was awesome, largely due to the America plushie I received! 8DDD OH YES. And since I most likely won't chat with most of you until next year, I wish every one a safe, happy new year! **

**2) OTL OTL OTL I. FAIL. SO. HARD. OTL OTL OTL**

**And I know, guys...I know I broke my promise about late updates and such, and that makes me even more of a sucky person for getting this up so late. ;_; I won't go into a lot of detail, but basically it was a mixture of two things: the first was just school pulling my life into chaos, and the second was the most prolific and irritating and horrible parasite on this earth: WRITERS' BLOCK. Before I knew it, exams came along, followed by the busy time of the holiday season. But really, those aren't even entirely valid excuses, because I did have free time when I could've written and didn't. And on top of that, I once again rushed to get this chapter done, so I feel like it has the potential to be rather half-assed. So if you're mad at me, feel free to come to my house and beat me over the head with a lamp in your rage. ^^'**

**3) On a lighter note, my AWESOME friend Sherlock McLennon-Harristarr, as she's called on this site, is in the process of making a trailer for this fic as a late Christmas present! 8DDD So keep an eye on my profile page, because the YouTube link shall be posted there as soon as it's been uploaded for anyone who would like to see it!**

**And now, as always, time to call attention to the infinite and unfathomable AWESOMENESS of my REVIEWERS, FAVORITERS, and SUBSCRIBERS: Yoly, Super Sister, Cacow, Miyukichan23, NONAMESWEREAVAILABLE, LunarMiracle, Howl's Owls, Dr. Demon, Erika Strider, angelsxdemons, secret-moon-rose, and LePetitPappillon. **

**PLEASE R&R, YOU EPIC PEOPLE!**

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><p>Peculiar things, memories can be—peculiar the way in which they may remain dormant, hidden for months or years in the dark and dust-drenched warehouses of the brain, abandoned in the shadiest of back corners. And then, often without warning and at the most inopportune moments, that memory would awaken and push itself to the forefront of the mind's eye like a ghost returning to its old haunt. And it would refuse to fade, refuse to be forgotten entirely.<p>

Funny…he had never paid much heed to the past before. It was like a shadow, something which he knew was there and was visible, but that was neither tangible nor important. And it was something that he couldn't be bothered with.

Not this time, though—this time the Ghost took over with a vengeance, grabbing his attention with an iron fist and squeezing all other thoughts from his consciousness like excess liquid from a dishrag. And oh, yes, he started to remember: the scene was blurred, as though he were viewing it all through a fogged glass window, but he could make out the vision.

A pair of hands. _His _hands—they were the hands of a different time, perhaps, a time before they had been made unclean by the circumstances of the modern world, but they were his nevertheless. And they moved…no, rather they danced, leaping and skipping and waltzing across their own stage of ebony and ivory. Nimble fingers were guided along the piano by some invisible and wonderful force, brought to life the way a puppeteer gives a human essence to the otherwise unfeeling pile of wood and string that is a marionette.

But there was something else. This memory, this image was showing him the impossible, something that he would surely never dare do.

…_Who was it?_

Beside the grand, shining black instrument, another person stood, listening silently as the stream of notes flowed forth. The figure's face was hidden from view, every discernible feature scrubbed away…but indeed it was still a living, breathing human being in the room with him.

_Who?_

He had never played for anyone, had not once shared his precious music with another soul. No, no, this was not a real memory—surely it was a hallucination of some sort, a picture painted with the vivid colors of the imagination, and nothing more.

After all, who would want to hear the discordant noise created by _his _hands? Surely any sound created by a filthy country would be just as impure.

And it was something Austria simply couldn't be bothered with.

"Are you going to say anything, or should we both just stand here all day?"

…Especially not when there was a knife still pressed firmly against his throat, tiny serrated teeth grinning with an evil and insatiable hunger at the prospect of delicate white flesh to penetrate.

So he forced that infuriating, nagging curiosity created by the unidentifiable person in the flashback—no, in the hallucination—away; he banished the Ghost once more. And then, of course, his expression folded itself neatly, almost automatically, into that display of dull indifference to the dull and indifferent world, the world of smiling knives and pistols and two brilliant green orbs that bore harshly into his own, as though trying to burn past them and into his head.

The owner of those forest eyes went on when she received no answer. "As long as we're here, I'm curious: what exactly were you doing here?" she question in a way that was gruff but forced. Perhaps there had been a time where she'd grown accustomed to speaking with a gentle tone.

He pressed his small gun a bit further into her gut. She did not react, fixed just as intently on his every move. "I could ask the same thing about you…but if you must know, I was on my way to the black market." She didn't need to know that he had gotten himself lost on the way there, he decided.

An eyebrow lifted itself slightly upwards in mild intrigue. "You deal there a lot?"

His lips, which up until that point had been pressed into a thing line and locked tightly in that emotionless position, twitched a bit. Pride whispered in his ear, telling him exactly what his reply should be. And why not? Was any measure of success not something to be proud of, particularly when it was a notion that was to a nation about as plausible as plucking a piece of the moon from the heavens?

"Well, in this particular city…I control the majority of it."

Her stony look cracked for a moment, exposing the surprise residing just beneath the surface. He continued before she could had time to make a retort. "Well, what about you, then? I haven't seen you around here before."

She stared at him for a moment behind wheat-colored bangs. He thought he detected a hint of disgust in her gaze—caused by the unnecessary tidiness with which he presented himself to the world that didn't give a damn, by the thin wire glasses he wore for show, by the way he wore money on his sleeve. To be perfectly honest, he didn't blame her: if he saw another person wrapping themselves in useless vanities simply to cover up the fact that there was nothing of value to be seen when they were stripped away, he may have felt a bit sick to his stomach as well.

At last she replied bluntly, "I was just passing through this area, that's all…if I happen to be the one who gets out of this alive, I'll move onto the next city. I don't like staying in one place for long. But anyway, it's—"

The sound of her voice was suddenly invaded and overcome by that of running, several pairs of boots clattering against the pavement like rain falling upon the roof. The owners of those boots were rapidly approaching.

The turn of Austria's head towards the noise, that lapse of concentration, was all it took.

The girl swept her blade across his throat, creating a thin and shallow wound in the pale flesh that spewed crimson tears, but she had gotten nowhere near his jugular. By the time the sharp pang had registered, she had already taken off.

For some reason, either due to instinct or the fact that he frankly didn't have the slightest idea as to what to do at that moment, Austria followed. He followed until she skidded to a quick halt in front of a cellar located in the back of a building, and she was just about to wrench the top open when she turned and looked at him with incredulous eyes. "What the hell are you—" She didn't have time to finish before she heard the footsteps thundering closer, unceremoniously shoving him down into the underground shelter and closing the lid over the top of both of them, putting them in the strangely comfortable companionship of silence and darkness. Above, they could hear their pursuers slow down and begin to spread out, a troop of cats stalking the pair of mice that hid in their makeshift den.

There was an opening in the roof through which light and air where allowed the pass through in a trickle. Peering through it, he could make out the scarlet uniforms.

In the dim illumination, he saw the female country looking upwards, calm and alert and unmoving, and he had to wonder if she even felt fear after this time.

…Oh, yes, it was there. She kept her anxiousness contained, sealed tightly inside the prison of her body, but he could tell by her slight tremors that it was doing everything in its power to escape. And every so often-brief as the flickering of a candle, but still there—her expression would falter and reveal all in the emerald fire of her eyes.

She was terrified. He wasn't doing any better.

That's when, with an impossibly loud bang, a pair of heavy boots planted themselves on top of the hideout and stopped there, along with the hearts of the two fugitives directly beneath them.

And they waited. They waited as the owner of those fine boots paused in contemplation, deciding whether investigating the cellar would be worth the effort.

The soldier stomped, shaking a few stray cobwebs from the top, silk strands shimmering and then dissolving into the dark as they descended. Hollow space beneath.

Suddenly, like the elongated nose of some strange metal beast sniffing for prey, the long barrel of a shot gun made its way between that crack in the roof.

Austria had but a moment to come face to face with the ravenous creature before the resounding bang echoed throughout the tiny room, and he felt the tiny projectile enter his leg.

Oh, oh, but this one was not a bullet. This had to be something worse. The moment he felt his flesh pierced was when his body was seized, as though he had suddenly been tied with a thousand unseen threads. And his body was left vulnerable to the sudden assault on his muscles, his nerves, his mind. His brain became numb, his ears deaf to any noise other than the intense buzzing inside his own head; he was unable to process anything, anything, except the agony that rapidly flooded his senses. The pain spread from his thigh like a poison poured into the rivers of his veins, igniting flames within his body, reaching every part of his body: reaching his farthest extremity, encircling his heart and lungs.

His mouth would have let loose an incriminating scream had his fellow nation not clapped a hand over it at that very second and then ripping the tiny projectile out. Looking up, still shaking violently, he could see the tiny strands of lightning that encircled the thing.

It was an electric dart.

And the shooter, satisfied that the lack of tortured shrieks meant that no one hid underground, walked away proudly in those fine, fine leather boots.

Several minutes were spent in the acute, mocking silence even after the last of the men had disappeared. Eventually, the girl reached up and opened the doors, allowing the light to stream in and spook the spiders into hidden crevices. "Right," she muttered, her voice still refusing to raise itself to much more than a whisper, "we should be fine. That dart wasn't enough to do serious damage, by the way…it was just enough to-"

"Why didn't you kill me?"

She turned immediately, scrutinizing him. "What?"

His breath still came out in quick gasps as he attempted to recover from the electrocution. The question had forced its way out, the words moving directly from his throat to his tongue without checking with his brain for approval, but he had no intention of stopping now. "You could have easily slit my throat and been done with it…why didn't you?"

She gazed at him for a moment, as though puzzled, then snorted. "That's your biggest question right now? If I'd killed you then, those jackasses from TERRA back there would have been left with a dead body on their hands. Don't you think that would have aroused even more suspicion?"

Yes, the answer was a logical one…what else would he have expected?

"…Don't you have a name?"

She had already turned away from him at this point and was on her way out of the cellar. She paused, but did not stop to look at him again when she stated, "Hungary." The word was said a certain emphasis, almost a defiance, as though the name were the only thing she were able to claim possession of and that she held it with a certain dignity.

He joined Hungary as she climbed out of the ground and back out into the street, for a moment saying nothing. Then: "Have you ever really seen the black market? Have you seen what it really has to offer?"

This time she did spin around to look him in the eye. "No. And I have no interest, if that's what you're saying."

She just barely had time to notice Austria's amethyst stare wandering from her to something behind her shoulder before, for the second time that day, she felt a gun being jabbed into her, this time against her back. The uneven voice of the weapon's wielder was the next to speak. "I'm afraid you don't have much of a choice."

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><p>Wilted, that's how he looked. Wilted and withered like a flower deprived of water, bending shamefully to the ground beneath its vicious torturer that was the scorching sun, begging for the mercy that would never come. Trapped in its prison of dry and rocky soil, the plant allowed its petals to grow a sickly brown and shrivel and finally fall to the ground, dying and rotting there pitifully. With each one that dropped to the earth in surrender, the sprout was forced to stare down at them dejectedly and wonder if and when its turn would be to succumb.<p>

Defeated. Anguished. Fragile.

As Italy bent over his perishing brother, shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs, he was that flower.

And as for Germany…the sight shook something deep within him, not only because of the sadness he felt for his acquaintance, but also because he felt as though he were suddenly unwelcome—as though he had walked in on some ancient ritual that he did not comprehend. He realized, suddenly, how long it had truly been since he had seen such unfathomable and genuine sorrow at the death of another human being.

He saw Romano, his body little more than a pre-prepared corpse; all that was necessary now was for the collapsing lungs and a rapidly fading heart to at last lose their determination to continue and stop for good in their exhaustion. His skin was already cool to the touch, and he didn't react when Italy's tears fell upon his face in fat, salty drops. And the blood—the blood was everywhere. The ruby stain spread across the concrete ground, the puddle expanding with every second. Each time he took a rasping breath, a tiny fountain of the life essence squirted out from the circular wound in his chest.

And there was nothing to be done. Germany realized this sickening fact.

"Romano…Romano, please…y-you can get up, I know you can! Please, will…w-will you get up and walk with us now?" Italy's pleas were cracked due to his weeping, his moist hazel eyes wide with horror and confusion. It was as though he could neither comprehend nor accept the scene before him, like a young child trying to revive a deceased pet.

Romano's eyelids slowly, slowly parted to reveal the honey color underneath. Even this simple action required all his effort, it seemed. He opened and closed his mouth multiple times, willing sound to come out. Words were attempting to claw their way up his windpipe before they, too, lost all strength to go on.

"F-F-Feli..." Oh, that voice of his was so very weak, like a puff of smoke ready to be scattered by the slightest gust of wind. "Th-the…the t-t-tricolor…"

This was all he had to say, or all he had time to say, before the amber of his eyes was hidden for the last time. His silent last breath dissolved into the air, swept away into the darkness. His chest no longer rose and fell, but remained motionless.

There were no words then—what could possibly be said? What speech dared claim itself worthy of such a time as that?

The only sound that pervaded was Italy's crying, and that described the moment in greater detail than anything.

It was an hour, at the very least, before Italy had gathered enough of the broken pieces of his self to speak. Oh, oh, still so very delicate was he, a shard of crystal that was ready to shatter.

"G-Germany…" His voice quivered, ready to degrade back into unintelligible bawling at any minute.

"Yes, Italy?"

"…I…I-I want to b-bury him."

"…Of course."

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><p>In another part of the city, a person stood over the body of an unconscious Japan, prepared to shove a sword into his body.<p> 


	15. Chapter 14

**Happy (belated) Valentine's Day, lovelies~! ^^ Or as I like to call it, Singles' Awareness Day (S. A. D.)! XD**

**I...really don't have very much to say about this particular chapter, except that I know you probably hate me right now for taking so long again. ^^' I do have to apologize that it's relatively short and ends on a cliffhanger. I did try to take my time with editing this time, though (which I should've done from the start...)!**

**PLEASE, as always, enjoy and tell me what you think if you care to! I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER.**

**METHINKS THAT I SHALL BESTOW ENDLESS COOKIES UPON THE FOLLOWING FAVORITERS, REVIEWERS, AND SUBSCRIBERS: Artica Corniculata Cirrhata, NONAMESWEREAVAILABLE, Ejo97, el18m, foREVerhauntingme, Miyukichan23, Super Sister, Cheshire'smadness, Hetalia. Power, Vine8Ky, PandaStarz, TobiTheNinjaKitten, LePetitPappillon, XxEmuxX, AwesomeMeiMei, and Erika Strider.**

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><p>He found himself transfixed by the unmoving, unblinking, unseeing collection of eyes that stared blankly back at him—the myriad of gazes, pairs of orbs of every shade, of blue and green and gold and grey and hazel and cyan and forest and turquoise….<p>

And the more he looked back at them, the more he couldn't help feeling that they were condemning him, looking down upon him for the wrongs that he had committed against them.

No…_scolding _was more like it. _Scolding _as a parent would a young child who had tried and failed to pilfer some sugary morsel from a shelf. The pint-sized would-be thief would stick out a plump bottom lip in a self-piteous pout, staring downcast at the plain white-tiled floor as though it would offer him some consolation.

He was not a child.

He continued looking intently up from his bed at the sheet that he held at arm's length above his head. On it were neat rows of small photographs, ones that just happened to be the faces of every country known to exist in the world, trapped in the stillness of their paper prison. And it was their eyes that he met.

Peter Kirkland was not a child. He was not a country either.

This was what he had managed to convince all the lovely people at TERRA's Youth Army Training Organization when he had first joined around six years ago. He had never been on that damning roster of nations, after all, had never had his picture there with the rest of them on the page which he held at that very moment. And how could any official of TERRA turn down this young boy that was clearly an orphan? How could they question him or close their door to him?

Such a thing would stain their local image were it to get out.

So they had let him in. And they had trained him. And they had taught him how to load guns and march with comrades and live in that blood-red uniform, to love it and grow dependent on it and make it a part of him as naturally as if it were his own skin. He had been draped in that crimson flag with the white circle and stars, blanketed in it, slowly and lovingly suffocated by it and all it represented. And there, amongst the government's righteous and upheld ideals, he had grown.

…Except that was just the thing about it.

He _hadn't _grown.

He hadn't grown—not physically, at least—because there had been a certain point in his life in which he had been called Sealand.

And now people were beginning to notice…oh, they wouldn't bring it to his attention directly, of course. What insult was more outlandish and offensive than calling someone a dirty country right to their face? It was simply the occasional wondering glance fired his way, the rushed and whispered rumor that always had a funny way of wafting mist-like through the air of the military barracks and managing without fail to somehow find its way back to him. They didn't let up even when he tried to hide it, when he purposely spoke with a deepened vocal tone and shaved his imaginary whiskers every morning.

But he was not a country. He certainly was not, not, _not_ a country. How could he be? No, surely he was simply a late bloomer.

This lie was what he had to keep shoving down the willing throats of all those around him, for as long as he could, for what he could lose should his cover be blown…

And the mission which he would partake in within the next few hours—the first one which he would accomplish on his own and unassisted, an almost ceremonial milestone—would help reinforce that falsehood.

He rose up from the gray and emotionless blankets that covered his gray and emotionless bunk, and as he swung his loyal shotgun over his shoulder and began walking out the door, they bid him a gray and emotionless farewell.

* * *

><p>Through the precarious night, he took yet another ever-so-careful step toward his target. With a cautiousness and stealth that could only be brought on by the threat of being discovered, almost delicately he lifted his foot up. Then slowly, slowly and softly, he set it back down so as not to startle awake the creaky floorboards underneath and have them scream out in alarm the fact that he was up and about.<p>

He paused a moment. The utter silence he received as his response reassured him that he had been successful.

And now he was so close.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, England could make out the slumbering figure of the man who had trapped him and France like animals inside the dank warehouse he was currently in—the one who had grinned ever so pleasantly as he shut and locked the door. Now that man, that idiot America, slept in front of that tightly closed threshold that led to the outside world and escape. Now that man lay engulfed in the ocean of unconsciousness, the gently rippling waters filling up his ears and closing his eyes and cutting off all sensory function. Perhaps he dreamed, though the mania-colored images created by the subconscious of this psychopath's mind were of no interest to England. All that mattered to him was that now that man was peaceful and unaware and perfectly vulnerable.

Another step, and he could see it now: in the pocket of America's leather jacket, which was wrapped around the resting nation, was the precious pistol that England had lost. The barrel peeked out like a dog eagerly waiting at the window for its master to return home.

Another step. He was within range now, able to reach his gun, and God, he was _so damn close. _There are ways to murder a man other than shooting him, sure...but there were none that his own honor would allow. He wanted, quite frankly, to add insult to injury. He wanted to kill America with his own weapon, that which had been taken from him.

But first he had to get it.

As though acting of its own accord, his hand extended out, groping and grabbing blindly at the blackness until at last…yes, he felt it: his now clammy fingers wrapped around the object, gripping it as though it were a lifeline to prevent him from falling into the voracious maw of some terrifying abyss. Then, with a heart that pounded out a frantic and wild rhythm, he in one rapid and desperate motion pulled the gun out.

For a few of the most horrifying seconds of his life, he waited.

America did not rise. He did not wake up, or move, or otherwise react in a way that would indicate he realized what had just happened.

And gradually, England smiled. Just for the fuck of it, he smiled as the relief and euphoria surrounded him as surely as the four walls of that goddamn decrepit room did. The thing in his hand seemed to settle into his palm with a sense of familiarity, happy to be reunited with its owner and ready to kill at the pull of a trigger. And kill it would. He would get rid of his captor, and by God, how he wanted to get rid of him. So much did he want revenge for the harsh beating his pride had received from this man. He wanted to show this bastard that he was not property, nor a toy, nor anything close to his friend. Hell, maybe while he was at it, he would kill that jackass France too.

And somewhere in the deep and dark and unexplored pits of his mind, an inner maniac would cackle in savage delight as cherry liquid spilled freely from the clean and circular hole in the forehead. Perhaps small pink bits of brain would fall out as well, like the stuffing from a child's torn-up teddy bear.

…Well, now, that was an odd thought. There was a part of his personality that was merciless, he knew, a part that had always been lying in wait and prepared at any moment to emerge. Maybe the blood-thirst of the young and foolish nation who lay in repose so unwittingly before England had influenced him after all. Or maybe in the end he was just as insane, and in the end everyone was just as insane, and the veil of what's known as sanity that everyone tries so hard to drape themselves in is for some more opaque and better at concealing that madness just underneath than for others.

Yes, that was an odd thought. Very odd indeed. Too bad at the moment he found himself not quite able to give a shit, because he could feel the weapon in his hand growing impatient, the bullet inside anxious to be freed.

With all the anticipation in the world, _England pulled the trigger…_

The echoing bang that should have resulted was instead replaced by a simple and quiet click.

He hardly had time to register what this meant before he felt someone seize his wrist, nearly crushing it. The force and his surprise combined caused him to drop the gun, his only means of defense clattering sadly to the floor like a pet left out in a storm.

Even before the thing hit the ground, he knew that he who just seconds ago had all the power in the world was now utterly helpless, a creature of prey trembling in the claws of the predator. That mad mental patient in his head that had been oh so excited at the prospect of simply laying eyes upon a dead body was now bound and gagged in a straightjacket in the darkest corners of an asylum.

And England saw exactly what he didn't want to see. He saw that strange expression upon the face of the man who now held him, that countenance with a smile that was sunny and bright and childlike and those contradicting glassy-blue orbs that were dead, dead, dead.

And those eyes housed in gleaming spectacles, like dust-covered crystal balls in the windows of an old antiques store, did not move as their owner's black-gloved fist slowly unfurled to reveal the contents in side. For several terrible seconds, England stared at several copper pellets—the ones that should have been inside his pistol—before America dropped them to the floor, hitting the ground one by one in a shower of metal droplets.

…A wind-up mouse is only given life when it is first wound tightly in order to build up its power, churning the carefully ordered clutter of gears and springs within, then released in one sudden action. And it was a simple fact that the more the key is turned and turned and turned, the harder it becomes to hold onto the little toy, and sooner or later it will go scurrying across the floor—erratic and unstoppable.

For years the invisible key in America's back had been wound, and for all of that time the blind anger and emotion that could be produced only by a madman had festered and broiled within him, just barely covered up by youthful grins and bomber jackets. But oh, God, he was just _dying _to unleash it all…and every time that damn key was twisted around and around, it became all the more difficult to hold that fury back. All he needed was something, someone, to let go of the key, and everything, _everything_ would be sprung loose.

England had done just that.

"_YOU FUCKING BASTARD! _I SAVED YOU, GOD DAMMIT! I _FUCKING SAVED YOU! _AND _THIS _IS HOW YOU REPAY ME? _BY BETRAYING ME? I DECIDE WHO GETS SAVED AND WHO DOESN'T—THE HERO, NOT THE BACKUP! I HAVE ALL THE POWER! I COULD SEND YOU STRAIGHT TO THE LOWEST PIT IN HELL IF I WANTED TO…!"_

And this was all England heard of America's inflamed tirade, or at least all he could make out of it. The rest of the words collided and mashed together with each other like derailed train cars, the letters crumpling and becoming distorted beyond recognition until at last all he heard was a single shout, a constant stream of discordant sound battering his eardrums. He thought perhaps he heard France's voice rise in fear and alarm above it before being drowned out once more. And this horrible, horrible noise was the only thing that registered in his dazed mind at that point.

…Oh, and of course there was the pain as well. He couldn't forget the pain.

For a few moments, in the confusion brought on by his concussion, he thought perhaps he was adrift in some tempestuous sea. He pictured the angry waves lifting him up on their watery backs only to throw him violently back down, plunging him beneath the surface again and again and again. Briefly, he envisioned what drowning would be like, to be grabbed up by the arms of the swirling currents and to become one with this world of blue-green liquid.

But no, no, that wasn't it…because as soon as he gained enough sense to pry open an eyelid, he caught a glimpse of blond locks, and the briefest flash of crazed, crazed blue eyes.

When he regained full consciousness he felt America, with a strength that seemed impossible for one who had seemed seconds ago so young and naive, picking him up and bashing him against the walls and the floor and any other hard surface that had the potential to crack open his pretty white skull. When that didn't work, when his attacker became too impatient, he became aware of rapid punches slamming into his chest one after the other. They drove the oxygen from his lungs, precious air escaping in gasps. And trickling down his face in warm cascades—had England still been lost in his maritime fantasy, perhaps he would have thought the salty taste that wet his lips was sea brine, but now he knew better—he felt his own scarlet life essence spilling.

He was a simple plaything in the hands of a toddler, a toddler throwing a temper tantrum and one who was exerting all his immature frustrations on something that he could throw around easily, something he could abuse.

And England knew he was going to die. Most certainly he was going to die at the hands of this youth. His pale body would go limp like the little toy dolly it was.

And then, so suddenly it took England several moments to process the fact, the ocean beneath him was tame. All in that little room stopped, everything around him seemed to cease in an eerie calm after the storm.

America was no longer trying to kill him. America's eyes were firmly fixated on the door, as though some message had written itself out there before his very eyes.

America was smiling.

He gently eased open the warehouse door without daring to look outside, allowing the light of the glowing streetlamps to tentatively stretch a spindly finger of illumination across the floor of the room.

America had England's gun ready. America positioned the weapon, aiming it through the crevice.

_America was smiling._

Three gunshots, three bold salutes to violence in the night.

To America's delight, a cry of anguish was the reply he received.


	16. AUTHOR'S NOTE

**OKAY. I swore to myself that I would never do this, but as you can probably tell from the title of this chapter...(belated) APRIL FOOLS!**

**What? Did you think I was going to stop writing this story or something? ;D *shot millions upon billions of times***

**Sorry...I didn't get to prank anyone on Sunday, and I couldn't help myself. ^^'**

**Anyway, now that that's out of my system...*rolls over like a sweet little wiener schnitzel and grovels* I DESERVE TO DIE FOR TAKING THIS LONG. BUT FIRST FEEL FREE TO MAKE ME SUFFER BY SENDING ME HATE COMMENTS WONDERING WHY I TOOK THIS LONG, AGAIN. T.T **

**I do have reasons for why I took so long this time, including starting my own original story/hopefully future novel, which became distracting. But I know you don't want a stupid list of excuses as a meager attempt to make amends for my utter laziness, so I'll just go ahead and allow you all to murder you in my sleep. This also would have been up by tomorrow had it not been for a combination of church and visiting my aunt in the hospital (she's fine, by the way). And while I'm here, I should also mention that I'm sorry that this chapter is...kinda useless filler. ^^' That is to say, its main purpose is to tie up a few of my never-ending cliffhangers. I PROMISE that all this bullcrap I've been force-feeding you IS indeed building up to something, slowly but surely!**

**BUT! I do have a way to make this up to you guys! 8DDD I'm going on a road trip for spring break staring Monday, which means LOTS of time in the car for me to write. So the next chapter should be up faster!**

**I thank all you loyal readers SO, SO MUCH for sticking with this story, and I welcome anyone who has just tuned in! ^^**

**REVIEWERS , FAVORITERS, AND SUBSCRIBERS WHO ALL DESERVE TO EAT PASTA WHILE RIDING WICKED HIPSTER PINK UNICORNS DANCING ON RAINBOWS: Vine8Ky, Unknown Variable, Miyukichan23, bunniechainsaws, angelsxdemons, LunarMiracle, lightwolfheart, Super Sister, AwesomeMeiMei, and Aedarin.**

**And without further ado...ENJOY~! **

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><p>To be honest, he often forgot how much he loved the look of <em>red.<em>

The color was not unlike himself, really-always vibrant and loud and flamboyant, always screaming with a bold and silent voice so that it would be seen by all. Always desiring attention, always trying to turn the eyes of others toward it and grab their gazes and never let go. Oh yes, that is what he had always craved…to have a captivated audience focused on _him, _only him, so that they could watch him and all that he was capable of. The need to have a spotlight on him at all times was insatiable, and if he did not have it he might as well starve and allow his own body to devour itself, might as well let his throat shrivel like a brown autumn leaf due to dehydration.

He _needed _people to witness his miracles, _needed _them to see how he could be a hero.

Otherwise he was worth nothing.

_Look at me! Look at me!_

And of course, it was _red_ that he saw every time he saved someone. It was _red_ that came rushing out of a dead man's gaping wounds—oh, the wounds, those beautiful fleshy holes that opened up like speechless mouths, unable to find the words to praise the killer—it was _red _that came rushing out to thank him for being so merciful.

He always did appreciate receiving the gratitude that he deserved.

And it was _red_ that he looked upon now, a deliciously thick crimson substance spilling freely from the shattered leg of his latest victim-_victim_, he said, because this one did not deserve to be saved-soaking into fabric and expanding across asphalt. The street lamps overhead watched the show beneath them as well as they cast an unnatural glisten on the growing puddle of blood.

America paid little heed to the expression of anguish that adorned the young face of the boy he had just so ruthlessly shot, the youth gritting his teeth and clenching his eyelids tightly shut as though concentrating all energy on certain parts of his body would somehow ease the awful pain. Nor did America give any mind the Victim's pathetic whimpers, which would've been shrieks of agony had they not been suppressed within his throat.

All America wanted was the _red_.

_Look at me! LOOK AT ME!_

With a cheerful chuckle, he grabbed the Victim by the collar and dragged him forward-making sure to drag his injured leg across the ground, making sure to get a tortured yelp out of the child.

Oh, but now he got a good look at a shade of scarlet that he did not like, one that was abhorrent to him. The little abomination he held, wriggling and squirming desperately like a worm impaled on a fishhook, was wearing a uniform of the brightest _red_. TERRA's uniform.

_So this is what they've dared to do…they want to challenge me. _

Even on that night devoid of stars, eyes the color of the cloudless summer sky sparkled and danced with their usual enthusiasm as America wrapped a powerful leather-gloved hand around the Victim's soft throat, muscles rippling with excitement beneath his skin as the bloodlust building inside him pushed sweet adrenaline through the currents of his body. His words floated out in whispers that disappeared like puffs of smoke against the panicked young boy's ears. His voice was gentle and sing-songy and only caused the young TERRA soldier to descend into a deeper pit of terror.

"Wow…aren't you funny! _Haha! _They honestly sent you thinking that you could kill me all by yourself? That was your mission? _Heh! _Oh, well…I guess they didn't count on the fact that I'm the hero, did they? I guess killing you is the only way we'll be able to show them they're wrong, huh?"

With that, grinning pleasantly, he looked inside the Victim's shirt to see a name, sewn carefully inside with black thread: Peter Kirkland.

"By the way…" America was giggling now, unable to contain his complete and utter joy any longer. "I know that you have a loaded gun in your pocket, and I know that you've been trained how to shoot it. But you won't kill me, will you?"

All Peter Kirkland could do was quiver beneath the childish expression of this man with sweeping sand-blond hair as he felt his entire body being crushed beneath an iron weight of dread. His lungs seemed to harden into immovable chunks of rock as in his fear he nearly forgot to breathe. As much as he willed himself to do something—_anything—_to save himself, his thoughts became tangled and clogged within his mind until they all but slowed to a sluggish halt. His fright prevented him from taking any sort of action.

He could do nothing, nothing.

Another giggle from his captor. "No, of course you're not going to kill me. You can't kill the hero anyway! And besides, you're way too much of a little coward!"

And that made the young boy pause.

Those last words penetrated Peter Kirkland, so very conceited and mocking they were, and now that indignation drove something within him. That solitary sentence had struck a bit of flint inside him, and from that now jumped a glowing orange spark of anger. The flame rapidly consumed his horror the way a burning candle ate up a scrap of paper, which blackened and futilely attempted to retreat from the wrath of the fire. The heat of his own fury warmed his muscles, which up to that point had been all but frozen in his terror. The words of TERRA's drill sergeants reverberated off the walls of his skull, filling him, and for the first time…for the first time in his life, Peter Kirkland became a soldier, one truly worthy to don the uniform.

This idiot thinks that he lacks courage? How many times had he heard others muttering behind his back that he was too small, too weak to do the job?

Oh, by the way, Peter Kirkland was _not a child._

Before America could stop him, he managed to break free of the madman's grasp enough to pull his pistol out of his holster and, without even stopping to take aim, fired.

Now, to be fair, Peter had never exactly been skilled with a gun. And he had not necessarily been trying to make a fatal strike. But he was sure that his bullet had invaded flesh, and he had expected at the very least to hear a howl of anguish from the man who had him trapped, had expected for him to be released.

It didn't happen.

Though the blood cascaded down from the injury in his side, the ruby liquid rushing out wildly now that it was free from the narrow corridors of blood vessels, America's bright expression had not changed in the slightest. He grinned for a second before throwing Peter onto the pavement beneath, rattling every bone in his body in the process. He could hear the loud and sickening crack of his own skull as it collided with the pavement beneath, and he had to stop the flood of blackness lapping at the edges of his vision from pushing him into unconsciousness.

And there was America's voice again, ascending above it all to assault his eardrums.

"You see now? This is why you don't deserve to be saved yet! You need to suffer first, buddy! _Haha!_ In that case, I'll just-"

_"America!"_

Both hero and Victim turned to see two other nations standing behind America, emerged from the warehouse. One—the one with forest eyes and shorter yellow hair—was sporting growing purplish bruises from the beating he had just taken.

France was the first to speak up. "America, leave the boy alone! He's just a child!" (Of course, no one present knew that his words would not have been so hot and daring had he still not been plagued by the guilt of losing another child, and the fact that he had no way of knowing whether or not his Seychelles was dead beneath the charred debris of the brothel.)

America seemed both mildly surprised and amused at the defiance posed by this nation who was so much weaker than he, this person who did not understand. "Heh…but I can't save him until he feels pain, so he can be punished for thinking he could beat me! That's the only time he'll deserve my being the hero and—"

_"America, stop it!"_

And that's when America's smile flew away, dropped from his countenance like a dead petal falling from a flower.

It was England who had said that, and it was England who stared at him now, emerald eyes hardened in a stare of warning. He glared at America just in the way that an angered parent or caretaker would do to his naughty little one.

Yes…America recognized that gaze. Where had he been scolded in such a way before? What shadow of a memory held those blazing green orbs?

No, no…he had only made England his backup a few days ago. How could that look be familiar?

And with that, his lips once again painted a grin across his impish face as he grabbed France and England. "Please don't interfere…I don't need backup to help me right now." Before either could react, with his abnormal strength he shoved both countries backwards back into the warehouse and locked the door from the outside. He ignored their muffled shouts and attempts to break out again as he turned back towards Peter.

"I'll tell you what…I'll cut you some slack this time! If you can tell me where you came from, I'll save you! How's that?"

The young boy was clearly too dazed to react; he lay there as wounded prey, prepared to surrender to the vicious predator.

America simply chuckled and knelt down, his fingers searching through the pocket of Peter's uniform until…yes, there it was. He pulled out a piece of hard and rectangular plastic-a military ID-and saw the name of a TERRA base.

No, not just a TERRA base…his next destination, his next chance to be the hero.

"Thanks for all the help!" Not bothering to watch as he took the shot, hardly thinking about it as he reread over the ID in his hand with glee, he put a hole through Peter Kirkland's head.

Finally turning to look with satisfaction at the body of his Victim, he whispered more to himself than to anyone else, "See that? Look what I just did! Look what I can do!"

_Look at me! LOOK AT ME!_

* * *

><p>"Sis! Hey, sis, it's your turn now!"<p>

Ukraine turned to the sound of the perky voice as Latvia—bleeding and trembling even more than usual within his self-built cocoon of cowardice—was tossed out of the dark room like a broken toy that a child had finally gotten sick of playing with.

The older girl sighed as she reluctantly walked right into that same room. It was as always dank and dimly lit, as though the place was so ashamed by its own shabbiness that it refused to let any light in for anyone to see it. Chipping paint and cracks crawling their way up the cement walls showed through like hideous scars.

She paused and looked down as she saw that she was stepping on a maroon stain on the floor, just one of the many dried puddles of red life essence that littered and marred the floor of the room. Some of the blood stains were her own.

And there in the corner, bright violet eyes flashing in the blackness, was her beautiful little brother.

He stepped out to look at her, to give her a particularly lovely smile. Not one of those horrid smiles either, not one of those monstrous and cold counterfeits that destroyed her precious Vanya's innocence and filled his face with the evil lust for murder that she so despised seeing—that kind of demented smirk was not her Russia, and she refused to let anyone convince her that it was. No, the little grin he gave her now was gentle and sweet and all too rare these days.

"There you are, finally, sis! You're ready, aren't you?"

"Yes, Russia…of course I am," she replied with her usual feigned bliss.

He slowly stepped out, and from where he was behind her Ukraine could hear him sigh. "Sis?"

"Yes, _sonyashnyk?_" she asked as she unbuttoned the back of her top to reveal deep, crisscrossing marks that stretched along her skin like the claw marks of some huge beast. These scars would be joined by fresh ones in a few minutes.

Russia's genuine concern was evident in his voice. "I'm beginning to think that our other friends don't like me as much as you do. Do you think you know why?"

Oh, so many times had he asked her that in the past, and so many times had she failed to make him understand the seriousness of what he did to others. No, she had realized long ago that it was already too late for him to understand—he was past the point of no return, and that simple fact tortured her daily. It was at times like this that the blaring voice of despair screamed in her ear: _You couldn't do it. You couldn't protect him from himself, and now look what's happened._

And that's why Ukraine had stayed with her _sonyashnyk_, her sunflower. All his other subordinates in the Iron Curtain (with the exception of Belarus, of course) had attempted to run from him at least once, but not her. Every time she considered the option in a time of desperation, the guilt brought on by merely thinking of allowing her younger brother suffering alone was enough to make her feel as though she had lead in her boots, preventing her from ever trying to flee.

Suddenly, a very familiar sort of hatred began to well up in her chest like a dam threatening to burst its banks in a surge of rage. Not for Russia—oh no, for how could she be against someone so naïve and helpless in her eyes?—but for the strange and horrible animal that had wormed its way into her younger brother's brain, feeding on his sanity, hell-bent on turning him into the ferocious and wild demon that had been appearing more and more often in place of _her_ Russia. That savage that took the form of her younger sibling only stood as a testament to her inability to stop the onslaught of madness. The pure and charming boy that her brother had once been was rapidly fading away, the memory disappearing like the color from an old photograph.

"I'm sure it's not your fault, Russia. All your friends, they…they're just as upset about not being able to rob that bank as you are. But I'm sure they'll cheer up soon. I promise…"

And that was all it took, as just those few words of encouragement from his sister allowed Russia's expression of simple gaiety to return to his features. "Great! Let's get going then!"

Ukraine nodded and bent down as Russia stepped forward over her exposed back, his whip curled in his hand like a sleeping black serpent. And as he raised the lash over his head to make the strike, she made the same vow to herself that she had made a thousand times before: she would not leave, ever.

* * *

><p>She sat next to her entire life—or, at least, the thing that had become her entire life in the past few days.<p>

On her stool next to the window she sat perpetually gazing, as she had done nearly nonstop for almost a week. It was there that she would watch drops of crystal cling to the glass panes whenever it rained, and as though looking into a mirror of her own emotions, she would shed tears as well. It was there that she waited dutifully and desperately for a sign of what she wanted so badly to see—a golden blonde head emerging from the maze of buildings, ever topped by a battered white beret…

It was also there that Liechtenstein had seen the pillar of black smoke in the distance, billowing and curling upwards, and had found out shortly that it had come from the Louvre…the place where he said he would be…

She knew very well that her older brother would look down upon what she was doing. He would lightly reprimand her, tell her to get up and move and do _something _that resembled a living human being.

She also knew that he would have no idea how hard that would be for her. For all the time he'd been gone, she taunted herself, thinking that she heard the ghosts of his footsteps echoing across the ground or the faintest of knocks at the door. All allowed the embers of hope in her to glimmer bright, and all were nothing more than cruel fabrications of her mind created to splash water on and extinguish her optimism.

The window had a crack in it, too.

It was only at that moment that, for whatever reason, she decided to stand. Her legs felt a bit unsure on the hardwood floor after the many hours of only sitting. Then, mechanically, her feet propelled her toward a small drawer. Inside, waiting patiently in the same place she had last left it, was a small black firearm perfect for someone of her stature. Her brother had gotten it for her: he had wanted her to always keep it with her, so that she could defend herself whenever she needed to. She had brought it out with her maybe twice since she had gotten it, and never had a bullet escaped from it.

She didn't need it, after all. In the past, he had always guarded her.

Was there a part of her that would admit to herself the dark truth, that she knew he was dead? Was there some miniscule section of her brain that knew what she would not admit to herself?

Maybe so, but at that moment it did not matter. Her supply of tears had already been used up and depleted in the past few days, and now she was an emotional desert, drained of feelings. The agony of grief might hit later and cripple her, pulling her to the ground and bringing her to her knees as though she were bound to a thousand iron anchors, but not now.

Now she did all she could. She picked up her gun and left the empty house with the cracked window for the last time.


	17. Chapter 16

**STUDYING FOR FINALS...SUPER FUN~! w**

**Anyway, hello, everybody! 8D How have you been? Good? Awesome. Well, this chapter was...interesting to write. ^^' It's funny how the sections with my favorite characters always seem to be the most difficult to do...maybe that's just me? Well, at least it's a long one: just under twelve full pages, once I got it all typed out! I hope this makes up more or less for yet another long break between updates...*knows that it actually doesn't at all* It would've been even longer, since there was supposed to be an additional scene in this chapter, but I decided to combine it with the next chapter instead.**

**Why yes, I did copy another scene from the anime/manga towards the end of the chapter...thanks for noticing. 83 *shot***

**Once again, I realize that these last few chapters have been somewhat mundane, and I'm REALLY sorry about that. D': I swear to God that it WILL end up falling into place at some point and be more entertaining, and I actually DO have a plan for where I want this plot to go. If I break that promise to you, feel free to dismember me and feed my remains to rabid carnivorous goats. **

**Well, not too much more to say...I should probably get back to reviewing my materials for my three hardest exams tomorrow, shouldn't I? TWT**

**I'M RUNNING OUT OF EPIC WAYS TO DESCRIBE THE EPICNESS OF MY REVIEWERS, FAVORITERS, AND SUBSCRIBERS: Verachime, Velius Pseudonym, el18m, Miyukichan23, Super Sister, Myrna Maeve, Neko-chan24, Vine8Ky, and Erika Strider. COME HERE AND LET ME LOVE YOU ALL.**

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><p>The grenades from the black market were lined up in the prettiest and neatest of rows, docile as could be up until the moment that the pin was yanked away by a hand hell-bent on the destruction of fellow human beings. At that point they would be more than happy to break away in a blast of flame, to sear the nostrils with the violent stench of gasoline—to grow fiery talons that could tear and dismember a body until only charred bits remain to mark the spot where life had once been.<p>

His arm was hurting again. It'd been doing that for quite awhile, actually.

He looked around the tiny room, a monument to carelessness, ashamed of its own sorry state of disrepair. Slivers of white paint chipped and curled like un-groomed fingernails from the old wooden walls, and as he sat on the filth-encrusted floor he began to make the acquaintance of the cockroaches that called the grime home.

Funny…in the oddest of ways, he could relate to them. He'd been called an insect in the past as well.

Oh, _hell…_why was he thinking about that kind of thing now? There was no reason for it, now that it was over, was there?

And the more he told himself that, the more the question pecked and nagged at him.

_Wonder what the bastard's doing…_

The thought was laced with both bitterness and genuine curiosity. He truly did wonder if the devil that had once controlled him had changed at all since he had left over a year ago. Probably not, though. Those kinds of people never did change, did they? He bet the animal that called himself Russia still loved getting drunk on blood just as much as he did so with vodka. He bet the torture room, that place where pain took up its crown and scepter to rule over all who entered, was still in active use.

_Oh, oh, and I'll bet anything that the jackass still has that flowerbox. _Yeah, there he would try to grow his stupid sunflowers. Every year he would plant new seeds, and every year the most he would get would be a single dry and spindly stalk that always withered soon after breaking its way through to the surface world. Year after year, he would be left with nothing but dullness to show for his efforts: dull leaves rotting on the ground and dull grey soil in the pot and dull, dull prospects looking ahead.

And do you know what? That was fine. That was just damn fine, as far as Poland saw it. If that massive Bastard wanted to treat plants better than he wanted to treat people, then he prayed for Russia's failure in every endeavor, in horticulture and beyond. Yes, it was so very vivid too, the way the jackass was so devoid of remorse when he decided to release his fury upon he and Lithuania and the others—

…Oh, yeah. Lithuania. He couldn't forget that part. His mind was jumping quickly now from one thing to another, unable to keep focus, but he did that quite a lot anyway. It was rarely that he could really concentrate on something. And now he had jumped to Liet.

He could feel the air, the humidity seeming to stick to his skin. Beyond the open door, he could see the feathery grayish clouds skirting one after another by the moon, as though the great sky-orb were trying each one on for size like celestial clothing before tossing each one aside.

On the night he called to mind, there had been no lunar fashion model to pose before him in outfits sewn of cumulonimbus—it had retreated behind an overcast curtain. There had also been no bomb, no chipping paint, no bugs to befriend and most definitely no opportunity for hesitation.

There was, however, still Poland.

There was, however, still a balm in the air.

There was, certainly, terror.

* * *

><p><em>"Are you ready?" he asked the back of a head topped by light brown locks, which did not so much as turn his way at the sound of his voice.<em>

_"Hel_lo?"

_"I think so, yes." The reply was quick and matter-of-fact, as though there had been no gap in conversation at all. Still the person in front of Poland remained immobile, statuesque. The man was clutching his small bag of belongings too tightly in his left hand, as though he were holding onto the leash of a very large and unruly dog instead of an inanimate object. The way he stood with his meager luggage and stared very intently at nothing in particular straight ahead of him, he looked rather like a forlorn traveler waiting for a train or plane that would never arrive._

_"Well, don't _think, _stupid. Just _do, _'kay?" Poland was smirking. He knew Lithuania knew he was smirking, because just at that moment he turned around at last, those semi-long strands of wheat-colored hair swishing aside as he did so and giving way to a face worn by worry. Amidst all that natural anxiety, though, Lithuania managed to carve himself out a smile, like a lovely sculpture hewn from a rough piece of rock—it was a small and awkward sort of smile, as though it were rather embarrassed to show itself in a time like this, but it was there._

_"Do you have everything we need?" he whispered, still fairly tentative._

_"Like, of course I do. Did you check to make sure the Bastard is asleep?"_

_"Mm-hmm." The fragile smile was beginning to crumble merely at the mention of Russia. After all, when they'd first started planning this, Lithuania had always been the one to second-guess and take all precautions possible. Still his reluctance was difficult for him to hide._

_"Then let's get the hell going before I have to, like, drag you down the street!" He purposely made his tone even more upbeat, in defiance of the threatening atmosphere around them, but Lithuania's nervous countenance did not change as they began to slip through the maze of roads._

_Actually, if Poland had been willing to admit it to himself, he would have said that he was quite apprehensive as well—maybe frightened, if he truly thought about it, and it was a good thing that his own stubbornness and resolve prevented him from turning back. But perhaps that was only natural, he considered, as the two of them made their secretive way. It was only natural, under the threat of being discovered as they escaped from the headquarters of the Iron Curtain, a possibility looming as large and dark as the sky overhead. They intended to eventually make their way to the Continental Monorail…perhaps join a Resistance somewhere far away in another part of Europe, or beyond…but who could ever tell whether or not they would succeed?_

_In effect, with every step they took away from the gang, they were dipping their pens a bit deeper into the pitch-dark ink; with every defiant act against Russia, they were signing their own death warrants._

_"Should've just, like, killed the jackass in his sleep, huh? Then we'd have nothing to worry about!"_

_His light-hearted voice earned him only a grimace from Lithuania. "You know that we couldn't do that…other people have tried it before, and you've _seen _what's happened to them. And if we'd tried to blow up the whole place with him inside, the others would've died in there too."_

_"I know, I know. Geez, you take stuff seriously, Liet!"_

_"Right…because what we're doing _definitely _isn't worth being taken seriously."_

_Poland simply chuckled at the sarcastic remark, but knew that he was right. Though he regularly tried to deny that dread that regularly enjoyed creeping up on him, he had to do what he seldom did and admit that Lithuania was, in fact, right. He may have been high-strung and indecisive at times, but rarely was he incorrect about such matters._

_He became vaguely aware of Lithuania's lecturing voice buzzing in his ear, but as usual he chose not to listen. Instead he thought about the level of destruction and death he had encountered within the relatively short amount of time since Russia had thrown the figurative lasso around him and coerced him into joining his damn gang. He had watched as the Bastard had planted explosives beneath the foundations of countless buildings—places where uninvolved people lived and worked, most of them—and after the blast had seen the structures guts spill out, brick and concrete crackling and tumbling down. He often pondered how much of that crushingly heavy rubble landed atop women, children, the elderly when it fell._

_And within the Iron Curtain itself…oh, there had been the most atrocious wastes of life of all. He and Lithuania certainly hadn't been the first to defy Russia, to try to wriggle their way out of his cruel grasp. Each one that had tried to desert or kill the oppressive leader had been caught; each one that had been caught had been brutally, mercilessly killed. And Poland had seen just that happen to a few of them. Hungary had been the latest victim—funny sort of girl, but he'd liked her. And what was the last vision he had of her, burned forever into his mind? Her lifeless body lying like smashed china on the rough sidewalk, her blood draining from every crack the skin of porcelain—_

"Poland! _Hey, were you listening to me?"_

_"Well, it'd help if you didn't, like, always mumble."_

_"I asked if you heard that noise."_

_"When you talk, all I hear is the sound of boring." That one was petty and unnecessary, but sometimes when he got the chance he just _had _to insult Liet. He just couldn't resist._

_"I'm serious!" he replied indignantly. "C'mon, listen again..."_

_Poland listened…and, to his dismay, Poland heard._

_The sound was faint, barely noticeable in the beginning, but for all the shock and fear that it instilled so suddenly in the both of them it might as well have been a pistol shot just feet away. For a moment, it sounded almost like some approaching jungle predator quietly padding across a ground blanketed by leaves—in his increasingly panicked state, for a split second Poland envisioned something like a jaguar just behind them, despite the incredible unlikelihood. But no…as the noise came closer to the two of them, they could now identify it as the crunch of tires crawling slowly across the asphalt, and realized that the low and steady growl of the forest-beast was actually that of a rumbling motor._

_The area that they were currently in had been all but abandoned, as long ago its inhabitants had fled to Elsewhere in the hope of a better existence. There was no one left here that could possibly own a vehicle, except…_

_Without another word, he took hold of Lithuania's hand and rather forcefully dragged him into the nearest alley that was too narrow for a car to fit through, practically throwing him into the small corridor. Without a word, they ducked behind some debris in the shadows of the corner, consciously trying to will themselves to disappear. They huddled there like the resident rats, which had seemed to sense the danger as well and managed to make themselves scarce, scurrying on tiny sharp toenails for the shelter of their holes. And the two countries knew one thing._

_Only TERRA could possibly be driving around here, in this place and at this time of the night, on their patrols._

_They watched as at last the truck came into view, its blaringly yellow headlights going out in front of it like a feline's whiskers, searching and clearing a path through the night as the car stalked carefully forward. And now Lithuania and Poland had made themselves the hunted mice._

_Suddenly, to their horror, the truck halted its slow and rolling march and stopped directly in front of the alley, effectively blocking their one and only escape route._

_And now the mouse trap had snapped loudly shut with the two of them inside._

Just goddamn perfect.

_The truck's door—adorned by the government's symbol—opened, exposing the insides of the metal beast, as Poland and Lithuania sat helpless and waiting…_

_But no crimson-clad soldier stepped out to meet them with deadly weapons trained on the countries' hearts. Instead, out came a small young man, shaking and looking so unstable that he seemed in danger of simply falling apart at a moment's notice._

_"Latvia! Like, what the hell are you doing here?"_

_The little nation only continued to tremble and shiver, despite the warmth that permeated the air, as though he were plagued by a chill that only he could sense._

_"Latvia," Lithuania began in a soft but urgent tone, "where'd you get that truck? Did you steal it? Did someone give it to you?"_

_As though rusted and difficult to move, Latvia's quavering arm was slowly lifted up. He held out one finger, indicating something above their heads._

_Poland and Lithuania looked to where he was pointing, and there on the rooftop saw a figure silhouetted against the night sky, without a beam of light bold enough to dare illuminate his features. He stood there like a shape cut out from a piece of black cardboard, barely moving, a veil of shadow cast over his face to conceal him._

_The only thing that made him identifiable was the scarf around his neck, billowing in the wind._

_"How very funny, you two!" Russia called out cheerfully from the roof, his face still masked in the dark. "You two always were hilarious…you could always make me laugh! It's too bad that I have to punish you both so harshly for trying to run away now! Did you notice my new toy over there?" He indicated the truck. "A little something that I took from TERRA. I thought you might like it, you know!"_

_Suddenly Russia appeared to pull something out from behind his back, and the glinting beak of a shotgun materialized in his hand. "Still, I don't need rebels in my gang. I know you were the one who initiated this, little Poland, so you'll be punished first. Would you like to apologize for leaving me before I kill you here? I'll give you all the time you need to repent…no rush!"_

Die…

_…And it was peculiar, really, how small an effect that word had on him right at that moment. He was going to die, and he did nothing about it. He was going to die, and he chose only to take a look around at what would soon be his grave sight—at Lithuania's gaze of utter terror, at the broken bottle in the corner that still retained the smallest drop of liquid, at the fading stains of filth that left the ground blotchy as though it were bruised…he wondered if there were any other place where he would rather fall and perish, any other spot where he would rather have his bone and tissue decay until the essence of what was once him had become nothing more than a snack for the lowest of scavengers._

Die…you're going to die, Poland…

_And suddenly, the gush of words emerged from his throat. They contained none of his usual silliness—no, they were raw and uncensored by Better Judgment. They rushed out too quickly and too chaotically to be stopped, like a swarm of bats from their cave at sundown, and each spat directly in the face of the Bastard._

_"Apologize to you? You _honestly _think I'm going to tell you that I'm sorry? After _all that you've done, _I'm going to act like a wuss in front of you again? Well, in that case you're stupider than I ever could've imagined. Fuck you. Fuck you and fuck your entire gang." He knew that Russia was already infuriated beyond all reason, and he knew that his phony, friendly facade was rapidly dissolving, so naturally he had no intention of stopping his vocal barrage even as his voice began to quiver almost as much as Latvia did. "You never had any friends, you delusional cock-sucker. Do you know that? Never! You just scare people into joining you, and that's why they've all tried to leave you! That's why—"_

_He thought he saw Russia's mouth form the word "Enough!", but it was drowned out by the thundering shout of the firearm. _

_The next thing that Poland felt was his face against the concrete, and the next thing he heard was Lithuania's oddly distant voice yelling his name in horror._

You really need to stop mumbling, Liet…

_It was strange, how little pain he felt, as though the bullet had been caked in morphine. His mind moved sluggishly, unclear, and it took some time for him to feel some sort of hot fluid spilling freely from some part of his body. He wondered what it could be…_

"Poland!" _That was Lithuania again. It had to be. "Poland, please! Get up! I know that you're alive…you just need to _wake up!"

_Wake up? Why in the world would he wake up? He could already feel his tiredness, his growing lightheadedness beginning to overcome him, pulling his eyelids down over his green orbs and replacing his muscles with lifeless lead weights in his limbs…_

_He could hear Lithuania screaming more and more, and the sound of shuffling boots as presumably the Bastard had come down from the roof and was dragging him away. Poland thought that he was calling out his name again, but it was difficult to tell. He could feel the blackness descending over him, as though the sky above were a dark sheet coming down, down, down upon him to cover him up until he could no longer be seen…_

* * *

><p>His arm was still hurting. He clutched it, in an attempt to stop the pangs that reminded him so well of that night, but just like his memories they persisted.<p>

The Bastard had gotten a good shot, just below his shoulder, and had shattered several bones—it had come close enough to his heart to make Russia think that he had killed him. And in fact, that was exactly how Poland had survived: just after he'd been shot, he'd fallen to the ground and prayed that the jackass would not realize that he was still breathing. By some great miracle, his prayers were answered, but when he had collapsed he'd knocked himself unconscious.

It was a clever trick on his part, wasn't it? It was the reason he was alive today, wasn't it?

Except that it was cowardly as hell. He could call himself brave all he wanted for at least attempting to stand against Russia, but in the end he had still left Lithuania there, left him in the hands of the Bastard.

But he refused to let that happen anymore. No, now that he knew where the gang was again, he would put his grenades to proper use. And this time, as horrid as it sounded, he could really care less about the other members of the gang trapped inside the building—if he had to, he would just get Lithuania out and then blow up the entire goddamn Iron Curtain.

If innocent lives were lost? Well, he'd be sorry…he'd force himself to live with the burden of that, the guilt etched onto his skin like a burning brand mark. But he would have also killed the Bastard—the one who'd killed an innumerable amount and would continue to do the same—and he would have repaid Lithuania.

…No. He had to stop lying to himself—it was a bad habit of his. Liet was a large part of his objective, of course, but…

Ah, there was the irony of it. The Bastard's sickness and insanity had wormed its way into his mind as well, no matter how he tried to tell himself that he was above Russia and his heartless pursuits. The things that had happened to him in the gang had left their scars upon him, and those injuries opened up and bled from time to time. The truth was that there was still a small part of him wanted to savor the revenge on Russia like sugar melting on the tip of his tongue, but sweeter. That was his selfish reasoning, and like it or not, that was part of the reason why he intended to destroy the Iron Curtain.

As he walked outside, he wondered if Russia had ever considered something: _Even if the cat is the hunter, the mouse still has claws to fight back._


	18. Chapter 17

**"I am a _despicable _human being!"**

**-Rapunzel, _Tangled_**

**Honestly, this is exactly how I feel right now. T.T If you still want to put up with my unecessarily long and rambling author's notes, please give me a chance to explain my absence, as well as why this chapter is much shorter than the ones before it. You see, I did expect to have a lot more time to create better and faster updates for this story this summer (that seems logical, right?). But the fact is...I just don't. 0_o Somehow my schedule got plugged up with random crap that has left me little time for writing. What writing time I do have, I've (perhaps unwisely) devoted to my original project as well as others. This one somehow slipped under the radar, and before I knew it, it had already been six weeks since the last update. And on top of that, I've been having a dash of computer trouble recently, which also hindered things. Guys, I know this isn't by any means a worthy excuse, but I hope you'll take it into consideration as you angrily storm my house with sporks.**

**On a much lighter but somewhat related note, not only has the one-year anniversary of this story come and gone (as one lovely reviewer so kindly brought to my attention), but while looking back at my older stories one day I realized that I have reached the milestone of recieving 200 reviews collectively on my stories! TWT You do not know how ecstatic I was, and all credit is entirely due to you guys. Your support is amazing, particularly for followers of this story who have stuck with it since it began early on. Please know that come hell or high water, I am determined to finish this one, because you guys deserve it so much! Just...gah...just THANK YOU ALL~! ^3^**

**(And I h****ope this quasi-filler chapter at least makes up a little bit for my putting this story on hold so much...I guess it is about a topic a lot have been asking about, if that holds any value? ^^')**

**AND NOW, FOR THE MAIN EVENT...MY ULTRA-AMAZING REVIEWERS, SUBSCRIBERS, AND FAVORITERS: Verachime, angelsxdemons, CrimsonButterfly94, mexicolover94, and BlueRaven. THANKS FOR KEEPING ME GOING!**

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><p>He lay sprawled on the ground, head encircled by a growing sphere of moist red gore, the deformed crimson halo of a fallen angel. As he looked up from where he had fallen on the asphalt surface—what would soon become his cold and uncaring deathbed, he was sure—he noticed that in the gaze of his attacker standing above him, there was the most eerie and unnatural tranquility.<p>

And then, as a tremor slithered its way up his spine, he noticed how much that utterly terrified him.

A killer should _not_ simply look down upon one of his dying victims—someone whom he was about to banish from existence, someone whose body would soon become a fleshy haven for maggots and worms—a killer should not look upon _that _and feel calm. There should be some other recognizable emotion floating like flotsam on the unconcerned waves of his eyes. There should have been horror or satisfaction or fear or bloodlust or (in a few rare cases) remorse.

But the expression that touched the face of the too-familiar young man known as Japan was unabashed as a boulder enduring the lashings of a storm, as blank as a white page that had never known the caress of an ink pen. In fact, he had the audacity to appear almost _bored._

And yes, to him, that was quite frightening indeed…because if Japan could remain unaffected by such a sight as watching another human being dribble life out into the street, what other spectacles could he endure? What other disgusting acts could he commit without batting an eyelash, without any feeling that such deeds were out of the ordinary?

"I always did think that you were too old to manage yourself…that's how you've been ever since I can remember."

With great effort, China raised his head from the pool of blood, his ponytail dripping scarlet like the paintbrush of a particularly macabre artist. He realized that one side of his cranium now felt slightly lighter than the other, but he knew the reason for that. Glaring a bright hazel glare at the younger man before him, he responded scathingly, "Would someone too old to handle himself have been able to deliver bruises like that?" He gestured to the fresh purple mark that now adorned Japan's lip like a strange and hideous tattoo, one of many injuries that had sprouted all over his body. China's fist had planted each one there, including the blow that had initially thrown the younger of the two nations into unconsciousness, if only for a few seconds.

Japan's mouth twitched, curved into a slight frown. "But when you were ready to finish me off for good, you hesitated. That's always been your problem: you hesitate."

As much as China did not want to admit to that fact, it had been all too true. Just minutes ago he had managed to fight and incapacitated Japan. He had poised himself for a definitive strike, had been perfectly ready to send the vicious point of his long blade on a pitifully short journey through his fellow nation's innards—if he had gotten lucky, perhaps he could have popped a lung like a pin to an unfortunate balloon or even dipped his sword into the rich, beating vessel of life in his chest.

China had been prepared for all of that, prepared for revenge…and then he had paused. He paused before he could skewer Japan's heart, just as his had been all but ripped apart in the past.

He did so because before his eyes, Japan had changed...oh, his bodily form had remained the same, but the way that the older country saw him did not. He had not seen the Japan that had betrayed him, had not seen the one that had begun the trend of all the people around China tossing him away like so much wind-tossed trash into the filth of the alleys. No, for the first time in what must have been an eternity, he had seen the broken but promising young man whom he had brought into his half-destroyed home shortly after the rise of TERRA, shortly after the beginning of the dark times.

He had seen the Japan that once upon a time had asked him for help.

And recognizing that Japan, there was no possible way that China could have ever murdered him so brutally, no matter the brutalities the latter had forced the former to endure before.

His moments of indecision had allowed Japan his chance to suddenly seize China's weapon, throwing him backwards. Before the amber-eyed nation could even begin to react, he heard the whoosh of sharpened metal slicing the air next to him like a remarkably gentle breeze, whispering brief words of violence to him.

And China knew for sure then that it must be a truly fine and clean blade as well, since he was surprised by how little he felt at first when his ear was smoothly cut off.

From that point, there had been no contest, despite China's fervent efforts to resist. Even though Japan appeared sickly and skeletal, even though his rib and hip bones jutted out defiantly against the frail skin that contained them…every one of those bones was stronger, younger than those of the old country. So now he crouched there, defeated and bound like an animal on the sidewalk, looking down at his own newly detached body part that would perpetually hear and never find the words to respond. He sat, waiting impatiently for a finishing blow and fearing that it would not be mercifully quick.

"You never did explain to me why you left us," he growled, simply because he was anxious to provoke some sort of reply from the horrifically stoic man.

He received one. " 'Us'? I do not see the others here with you…they've left you as well. They have, haven't they?"

And it was those few simple words that penetrated him more deeply than any knife could ever hope to, burned him more than the chafing ropes that Japan had used to subdue him, now coiling serpentine around his wrists and ankles. That one statement had allowed the deluge of memories to wash over and overpower him, the waters leaving behind a bittersweet taste as they filled up his mouth. As the current tossed and carried him along, he passed by the faces of those who had once looked to him as a leader. Hong Kong. Taiwan. The Korea brothers. Vietnam. These were the nations that he had salvaged after the government had begun hunting down their kind, the ones whom he had invited to stay with him and stay at least relatively safe.

But Japan had been the first. Japan had been the first that he had taken in and assisted, the first one that China had tried to make strong again.

And Japan had also been the first one to thrust a dagger into the older man's back one night as he slept.

After that, all the other countries seemed desperately anxious to leave as well—Japan had always been the most distant and the most independent, but gradually they, too, all chose to depart from him until he was at last left alone…and it seemed that in an attempt to heal the mental wounds each disappeared nation had inflicted upon him when they had left him behind, he had hastily tried to plaster over the gaping holes in his soul with bitterness and hatred.

"That isn't what I asked you. I asked you why you chose to leave!"

Japan raised his eyebrows slightly, condescendingly, as though the answer were painfully obvious. "What have you ever done to try to change the situation of the world? None of us were content to live with you forever…we would've only wasted away, trying to dodge TERRA's soldiers but doing nothing to actually stop them. You were too weak to try rebelling against them. That is why we all left—it is because you were foolish and content to preserve the status quo. We weren't."

China turned away slowly, refusing to reply. For a moment he chose to turn his attention to a collection of beetles marching dutifully across the ground, all sporting iridescent black shells that would be no defense against a boot bearing down on them to crush them. Their exoskeletons would crumble and split like shattering eggshells, their guts oozing out. He wondered, vaguely, if he would look like that once Japan at last finished him off. He wondered if these few bugs would be the last thing he would ever see in the worldly realm, before the pall of darkness were carefully pulled over him.

"At least…" Japan began, causing China to look back up. "Even if you are weak in other ways, at least you are not showing your pain. You never have shown anyone your pain."

To his amazement—perhaps it was a trick of the light, but he wanted so terribly to believe that it was indeed real—he thought he saw some sort of hint of humanity springing up like a tiny bud through the seemingly fallow soil of Japan's eyes. Maybe the younger man even had some rather fond recollection of his past with China. Maybe Japan didn't truly want to kill him…after all, he had not attempted to land the final blow yet, had he? Perhaps Japan had some sort of reluctance after all, and maybe he—

Japan raised the sword high above his head, and as he did so he immediately caused whatever semblance of hope that had been building up in China's chest to plummet to earth, like a fowler shooting down a young bird that had only just begun to fly. "But then, you haven't felt any _real _pain yet, have you?"

Drops of fresh blood dripped slowly down the blade poised above him, coursing down the metal surface like tears, as though it regretted the fact that it now had to kill the person who had once wielded it. If only, if only Japan felt that way as well.

…Oh. He saw it now. In reality there was nothing, _nothing_ in Japan's ocher orbs that suggested that he had any feelings after all. They were two barren wastelands, fit only for the production of rocky earth and disloyalty.

And then down it came. Down, down, down came the flashing liquid silver-a hot torrent of metal surging wildly through the veins in his leg, the fresh products of a fiery kiln splitting his thin, pale flesh.

Oh, how he wanted to scream. Oh, how he would have _loved_ to unleash the anguished and furious yell that had been ignited in the back of his throat and clawing its way up to the tip of his tongue, to give it life and a voice. He wanted to launch that stream of agonized sound, just as the warmth was flowing from his deadly wound in a pulsing river of vermillion chaos...

But he refused. He caged the bestial screech behind gritted teeth, even as it fought desperately to break its way out of its enamel prison.

_Do not show pain. _

"I see...it is a bit impressive, how stubborn you are. Not even a yelp." A voice as hollow and unfeeling as the desert gusts, as the eyes of an ivory skull. "If you're still conscious enough to hear me, know that you'll bleed out within minutes."

_Do not show any pain. Never, never, never..._

"And know that I've done this for my survival. Nothing more, nothing less. _Sayonara_..."

That was all. No great speech of victory, nothing that would indicate that Japan received any satisfaction from what he had just done. And as the young man went away for the final time, and as the world before him was stripped away from China like scraps of paper scattered on the air, he realized one thing that he should have years ago: Age and death did not come one after the other. They traveled together, united, a two-headed viper.

He had died long ago.

And still he did not show pain.

He thought, for a moment, that he saw the form of a human...perhaps even one that was walking toward rather than from him, at long last. But that visage, like all others, was drowned in the blackness as a permanent sleep weighed down upon him.


End file.
